
Class 
Book 



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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT: 




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Rhymes of the Yesteryear 



IN THREE PARTS 

PART I— RESERVE REVERIES 
PART II— ROUND UP RHYTHM 
PART III— MEDITATIVE ODES 



BY 

HENRY GOFFIN FELLOW, Ph. D. 

Author of 

School Supervision and Maintenance 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 



NICHOLSON PRINTING & MFG. CO, 
Richmond, Ind. 

1914 



y^SW 






Copyright, December, 19 14, 

by 

Henry Coffin Fellow, 



JAN 141915 
©CI.A393266 



lEbbttaium 



TO 

MELISSA STANLEY FELLOW 

MY BELOVED WIFE 

AND HELPMEET IN ADVERSITY 

AND PROSPERITY 

THE ONE WHO INSPIRED ITS PREPARATION 

THIS LITTLE VOLUME 

IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 

BY THE AUTHOR 



PREFACE 

BORN in the log-cabin days of Hoosierdom, rocked 
to sleep in a sugar trough, fed on mush and milk, 
taught to swing the wheat cradle and grubbing hoe, 
to dig ditch and split rails, to grub briars, pick trash 
and burn log heaps, to handle a single shovel plow 
from the time he was knee-high to a duck, to play 
shinny on thin ice, bull pen and black man and to 
cipher to the single rule of three ; to eat out of the 
tail-end of chuck wagon, to live with comfort in a dug- 
out, to stake his last plunk on a drop of rain, to teach 
the young idea how to shoot without bu'stin' the bar'l 
and take skinned duck and jack rabbit for pay, and 
glad of the chance. 

In view of the aforesaid, having seen the old pass 
away and the advent of the new order of things, the 
writer, during fitful spells of Springlomania, has 
penned these rhymes at times in the last forty years, 
and now perpetrates the same on a gullible public, 
hoping that they may not be taken too seriously, and 
may lighten your load a little. 

Yours truly, 

The Author. 



INDEX 



PART I 

RESERVE REVERIES 

PAGE 

The Yesteryears 1 

Here's to Good Oi/ Injianny 5 

The White Rose of the Wabash 7 

Chief Kokomo 13 

The Last of the Montezumas 14 

Homestead Memories 15 

Autumn 17 

The Tramp 18 

"The Cabin in the Clearing" 19 

Lost Lenola 20 

The Last of the Miamis 22 

The Ol' Fishin' Hole 23 

April Showers 24 

The College of the Wood 25 

The Old Farm 27 

Grubbing 29 

An Eventide Elegy 31 

Vacation 33 

My Mother's Grave 34 

The Old Arm Chair 35 

An Indian Reserve Reverie 36 



xii INDEX 

PAGE 

Dreams 38 

Winter 40 

March 42 

My Grandmother's Rocker 43 

Debt 44 

Our Unnumbered Dead 45 

The Outcast 46 

Tears 48 

Autumn Leaves 49 

To My Nephew, Homer 50 

To the Honorable Benj. S. Parker 53 

My Grandfather's Clock 55 

To My Brother, John J. Fellow and Wife 56 

Flowers 60 

To Our Aged Grandmother, Jemima Stanley 60 

The World and Church 62 

Farm Ballad 63 

The Long Ago 65 

Thoughts 66 

Bachelor's Hall 67 

The Outcast's Lament 68 

The Well of Yore 69 

To My Little Cousin, Mary Martin 70 

The Death of Time 72 

Reveries 72 



INDEX xiii 



PART II 
ROUND UP RHYTHM 

PAGE 

To "No-Man's Land" 77 

IVANHOE 78 

Round Up Time 80 

My Dug-Out Home 84 

The Indian Scare of 1885 86 

Moving 93 

The Santa Fe Trail 94 

Grasshoppers, Year 1874 97 

Passing of the Wrangler 99 

The Spirit Mystery of Meade County 105 

Jim the Fiddler 106 

Professor Fellow's Hailstone 112 

Fantasies 115 

A Hot Number 116 

A Prairte Fire 117 

PART III 

MEDITATIVE ODES 

Thought 123 

In Commemoration 124 

As Ye Would 126 

To Wallace 127 

Wooed and Wed 129 

Meditation 131 

Courting on the Stile 133 

In Memoriam 134 



xiv INDEX 

PAGE 

Lullaby 135 

The Nativity 136 

Flowers from Jerusalem 138 

The Crucifixion 140 

The Song of Toil 143 

Watching and Waiting 148 

Ode to Father 149 

The Woof of Circumstance 151 

Life's Stage . 152 

To the Dead Past 153 

Sequence of War 155 

My Neighbor and I 156 

Marriage 159 

Life 160 

Under the Potter's Wheel 161 

plzarro, the scourge of peru 162 

Elocution 174 



PART I 



RESERVE REVERIES 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 



THE YESTERYEARS 

DEDICATED TO THE CLASS OF 1914 OF 
AMBOY HIGH SCHOOL 

I SIT in the garden of Long Ago, 
With its beautiful flowers of delicate hue, 
With its nectared odors of myrrh and rue, 
And live life over again. 

Half waking, I dream "Can nobody know 
How far from Forever to Then?" 

The chasm is spanned from Then to Now 
With delicate threads of purple and gold, 
Much finer than gossamer, worth untold, 

And ever and aye to mortals unseen ; 
The elves and fairies have spun them so 

They glow with a silvery sheen. 

Their fiber is spirit from the Loom of Life 
Spun from the Infinite One above, 
Endless in length as Infinite Love ; 

And they swing o'er the Chasm of Years, 
High o'er the Maelstrom of Strife, 

At the mouth of the Fiord of Tears. 

From Now to Forever, the Angels, I ween, 
Are building a bridge o'er the Chasm To Be 
Of spirit spun threads of woof that we 



2 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Mortals have ne'er unraveled or seen ; 

With fairy like tread the angelic band 
Pass and repass in their labor aglow, 

Swifter than light from the Unseen Hand. 

On the gossamer film from Now to Then 
There comes to me dreams of Long Ago, 
That flash their light like the diamond glow 

Out through the trackless night of Time; 
And I sit and review them again and again, 

Then lock them up in my casket of rhyme. 

The cabin of logs that stood by the way 

With great open fire place, ample and wide; 
The broken stone hearth and chimney outside, 

Made out of niggerheads, splinters and straw, 
And up to the top it was plastered ' with clay 

To give it a draught, — we called it a draw : 

The spring house and spring close under the hill 
Where clear crystal water came bubbling up, 
Fit nectar for kings of earth to sup ; 

The calamus swamp and creek just ahead 
Where the waters forever and ever will 

Ripple along over their pebbly bed : 

The old sugar orchard close over the run, 

The furnace and barrels, the kettles and pans, 
The buckets and sugar troughs, spiles and cans 

Robbing each maple tree slowly by stealth, 
Taking the toll that one by one 

Pays Dame Nature with vanishing health. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 3 

The ol' swimmin' hole is gone now, I ween, 
The sycamore bend so entrancingly vast, 
Where the waters were kist by the shade overcast; 

The great wooden swing in the wild cherry trees 
Never more creaks and swings between 

And sways to the tops in the evening breeze : 

The orchard and bramble of blackberry briars 
That grew in a thicket along on the ledge, 
And covered the tumble down fence like a hedge; 

How many a time have they caused me to writhe 
And vow that the thorns should be doomed to the 
fires, 

So I laid them low with mattock and scythe. 

The old Quaker meeting house over the way, 

Where silently sat the saintly serene ; 

Year in and year out did naught intervene 
To keep them from meeting and worshipping God 

In absolute quietude, garbed in their gray, 
With once in a while an occasional nod : 

The barn, the frame house with cedars in front, 

The hostelry kept by mother and pap ; 

Where preachers resorted for rest and a nap; 
And a good square meal with as hearty a greeting 

They got in a jiffy without an affront 
If forty drove in to the big Quaker meeting. 

To the harvest of wheat with bucket in hand 
With cradle and rake at the gray of the dawn 
The farmer of yore has merrily gone; 



4 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

But he's cut his last swath, and bound his last sheaf 

And doubled and twisted his last golden band, 
For the song of the reaper has brought him relief : 

The old brick high school close by the church 
Stands like a beacon hill back in the past, 
Though now burned to ash, its pictures will last 

The innermost, holiest shrine of our youth 
Where we united in diligent search 

For the stones that build the Temple of Truth : 

Soccer and football, shinny club too, 
High-buck or low-do, meaningless words, 
Draw baste and blackman, never more heard, 

Belong to the diction of long ago ; 

As far from our knowledge as Timbucktoo, 

And their passing away I loathe to know. 

All hail to our teachers of years gone by, 
Sweet memory cherish what they have done; 
Some gone to the clime that needs not the sun ; 

Some aged and hoary yet linger on earth 

Awaiting the summons from the Herald on high 

To pass and be judged for what they are worth. 

To schoolmates of thirty-six years agone 
We silently pause with tear dimmed eyes, 
And pray that our Father, who holdeth the skies 

In His hand, to bless you again, 
And give each Alumnus a beautiful dawn 

And triumphant close of the day — Amen. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 



HERE'S TO GOOD OLD INJIANNY 

BACK in dear ol' Injianny 
When it's red hot August weather, 
When the ager's ripe fur pulling 
Then I hike across the medder 
To the crick, an' 'gin my fishin', 
'Gin my dreamin', an' my wishin', 

An' my chawin'. 
Like a one hoss streak o' thunder 
Somethin' yankt the bobbin under, 
An' it made me maybe wonder 
Maybe there is somethin' comin', 
So I yank the bobbin hummin' — 
Nothin' doin'. 

Wall, along about September, 

When the punkins 'gin to yaller 
An' the apples ripe fur pickin', 

Then it's when it strikes a feller 
Hard; an' keeps him humpin', 
Keeps him diggin', an' a dumpin' 

With a scoop. 
Apples, punkins an' termaters 
Irish spuds an' sweet pertaters 
Nuff to twist our moral natures, 
If we even sware we'd quit 'er 
An' should cut the pike, an' hit 'er 
With a whoop. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

How I like the Injun summer 

Kind o' smoky like, an' hazy, 
Jist along about October; 

An' it kind o' makes me lazy 
Shuckin' nubbins frum the shock, 
Draggin' fodder fur the stock, 

Uncle Dan. 
An' it sets my heart to plunkin' 
An' my thinker tank to thunkin' 
When I chaw terbacker punkin, 
An' begin to spit 'er proper 
Jist a kind o' yaller copper 
Like a man. 

How I like that good old Injianny 

Drizzle, drazzle, drizzle, drazzle drap 
Jist along about November 

When the fodder's full o' sap 
Frum the snow, an' rain, an' sleetin' 
Fixin' fur to make the skeetin' 

Bully, Pete. 
An' all natur seems to shiver 
Under sich a silver kiver; 
Bet us kids would jist as liver 
Let 'er driz, an' friz up tighter 
While our feet are gittin' lighter 
Fur to skeet. 

How I like the winter evenin' 

When we start the skillet poppin' 

'Fore the roarin' fire a blazin', 
An' we never think o' stoppin' 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Till we raise the lid an peep in 
An' we fill the dish pan heapin' 

Full as can, 
An' we hike aroun' an' grab in- 
To the pile, an' keep a blabbin', 
Keep a pickin' an' a nabbin', 
Tryin' hard to beat the tother, 
Eatin' corn, until our mother 

Swipes the pan. 

How I like to git up airly 

When it's cold, an' gittin' colder fast 
Jist along about December 

With its rippin', whizzen blast, 
An' to start the fire a roarin' 
An' to stop the gals a snorin 

With a hoot. 
Bet ye they had bestes travel 
An' begin to hiken gravel 
When a kid begins to ravel 
On a cold an' frosty mornin' 
Without much, if any, warnin', 
Bet yer boot. 



THE WHITE ROSE OF THE WABASH 

IN A lovely little valley 
By the Susquehanna river, 
Stands a village, quaint and olden, 
In the midst of flowery gardens ; 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Stands, where once a noble forest 
Of the chestnut and the maple 
Furnished shelter to the Chieftain 
Eagle Feather and his children ; 
Stands an unpretentious village, 
Yet it's known in Indian romance 
As the birthplace of a maiden, 
Pale Face White Rose of the Wabash. 

From this Pennsylvania valley 
Had the Redman now departed, 
Though a few among the mountains 
Spent their summer times in hunting. 

'Twas an evening late in autumn 
In the year of seventy-seven, 
When the hazel nuts were browning 
And the chestnut burs were bursting, 
That a little blue-eyed maiden 
Who had scarcely reached a decade, 
Left the village with her playmates 
On a nutting expedition; 
And they wandered in their rambles 
Up among the mountain spruces 
In their quest for ripened chestnuts 
And the luscious mountain berries, 
Never for a moment heeding 
That the sun was fast descending 
Down behind the smoky summits 
Of the distant Alleghenies, 
And the evening shades were falling 
Like a mantle o'er the valley. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Presently from out the brambles 
Came a young and stately chieftain, 
Chieftain of the great Miamis 
From the valley of the Wabash. 
Spying well the group of children, 
Brave Meschingo looked at Frances, 
Gazed upon her golden tresses 
And her dainty little fingers, 
And they seemed to please the fancy 
Of his mystic Indian nature. 
Thus Meschingo contemplated — 
"Me take little papoose pale face, 
Take her to my distant wigwam 
Standing by the rippling Wabash; 
Make my papoose Indian woman 
For my mighty son Meshaka." 

So he sprang among the children, 

And he seized the trembling Frances, 

Pressed her tightly to his bosom, 

Bore her toward the Alleghenies 

With the swiftness of an arrow 

And the lightness of a feather. 

Little Frances cried and struggled 

But in vain to gain her freedom. 

Brave Meschingo tried to soothe her 

With his papoose Indian stories, 

But his husky words were arrows 

Which but pierced her tender feelings. 

Many days and nights he bore her 

Through the storm and through the sunshine, 

Past the streams of sparkling waters, 



10 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Through the thickets and the forests, 
Till at last he reached his village 
In the land of the Miamis. 

Little Frances cried and suffered 
All the long and toilsome journey; 
Ever called for mates and parents 
But they came not at her bidding; 
Came to see her many strangers 
Quaint and curious in their manners ; 
Came to give her consolation 
As she wept beside the wigwam. 
Weeks of wakeful, restless watching 
Caused her brow to burn with fever, 
And for days upon a hammock 
Did she talk in wild delirium 
Of her home among the mountains 
In the land of Pennsylvania. 
Charmers came and tried to cure her, 
Brave Meshaka sought to soothe her, 
For his boyish Indian fancy 
Was delighted with her being; 
Loved to toy her golden ringlets ; 
Clasp her dainty little fingers; 
Scan her eyes of azure blueness, 
And her cheeks of rosy redness. 

By his ever careful watching 
Did he check the raging fever ; 
Healed her so she left the hammock 
In the shade beside the wigwam ; 
Left it swinging empty laden 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 11 

In the late autumnal breezes. 
And there was a great rejoicing 
All throughout that Indian village, 
When the evil Spirit left her 
And the fever had departed. 

Young Meshaka taught her lessons 
In his Indian signs and language, 
And she seemed to take a fancy 
To his curious noble nature, 
As he sought to make her happy 
By his little acts of kindness. 

Fisherman was young Meshaka, 

With no peer within the village, 

As his eye could see the farthest, 

And his hand could cast the straightest 

Pikes beneath the turbid waters 

In amongst a pool of fishes, 

And he never failed at catching 

Thus a finny tribal morsel. 

Brave Meshaka loved to take her 

In his birch canoe beside him, 

And to dart across the river 

Like an arrow through the shadows, 

By the weeping willow branches 

Which he plucked and cast beside her 

In their flight along the water. 

Few the years which came and vanished, 
Ere Meshaka wooed and took her 
As his squaw the pale face White Rose, 
Lovely White Rose of the Wabash. 



12 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Indian language and their manners 
Took possession of her being, 
And she lost the gentle culture 
Which she had in tender childhood ; 
Yet she reared and ruled her household 
With a mother's love and kindness. 

Many years had come and vanished 
And Meshaka with his fathers 
Slept within the maple forest 
Close beside the rippling river, 
And his soul in peace departed 
To its hunting ground forever. 

Far spread wide this little romance 
Of this White Rose of the Wabash, 
How a child she had been taken 
From her home among the mountains, 
And had dwelt among the Redmen 
In the land of the Miamis. 

Came her brother, ag'd and hoary, 
West to see his Indian sister ; 
Came to bear her home in triumph 
To the scenes of youthful pleasure, 
But she said in broken English, 
"Me love Indian home and children, 
Go without your pale- face sister, 
Let me die among my kindred, 
Sleep beside the brave Meshaka 
In the land of the Miamis." 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 13 



CHIEF KOKOMO 

SLEEP on, thou bronze-face Chieftain, sleep, 
While o'er thy mound the ivies creep, 
While o'er thy dust the willows weep 

And sigh a dirge, a roundelay ; 
Thy warfare's o'er, O dusky brave, 
Thy victor is the silent grave 
And forest flowers that gently wave 
In sadness o'er thy mound of clay. 

Old Chieftain Kokomo, sleep on, 
Dream not of Indian wars agone, 
Or sun dance on the woodland lawn 

Within the stately elm tree's shade ; 
Though may thy spirit take its rounds 
Among forgotten Indian mounds 
Upon thy once fair hunting grounds 

And view the Dead Past, lowly laid. 

Thy tented field of oaken bark 
Has gone to dust, and not a spark 
Of warriors' camp fire lights the dark 

Adown the woodland's deep ravine ; 
Thy log canoe and oars long rest 
Beneath fair Wildcats rippling breast 

Within the drifting sands unseen. 

They have turned, for on the plain 
Thy children wage a war in vain, 
And bivouac with the slumbering slain 



14 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Beneath the hoary mountain's brow ; 
The story of thy race is done 
And, like the fiery setting sun, 
Is sinking fast, is nearly run 

And in thy memory we bow. 



THE LAST OF THE MONTEZUMAS 

IOW the mist hangs o'er the city, 
■* Resting like a funeral pall 
O'er the citadel and castle 
And the ivy covered wall. 

Naught amid the gloom but silence 
Reigns supreme in every hold ; 

For in blood we read the story, 
And with death the tale is told. 

Here the scepter and the mantle 
Scattered lie beside the throne; 

Lie to crumble with the ashes 
And to mix with blood and bone. 

Here the Palace of the Aztecs 

Lies in ruins on the shore, 
While the spirit of its builder 

Montezuma, breathes no more. 

There the ruins of their temples 
And their images divine 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 15 

Tell alike of Spanish plunder 
Of the altar and the shrine. 

All throughout the leaguered city 

Sleep a many a thousand dead, 
Victims of the Spanish thunder 

And their molten darts of lead. 

Stripped the Aztec golden treasure, 

But to feed the greedy flame 
Of the avaricious Spaniards, 

And to gloat Cortez's fame. 

But alike the Spanish tyrant 

And the Montezumas sleep, 
While their deeds, their names and ashes 

In the tomb of Time lie deep. 



HOMESTEAD MEMORIES 

BACKWARD roll in, thou floodtide of years, 
Bear backward upon thy crest-laden waves 
The scenes of the acts of my infantile days ; 
And let me to moist with penitent tears 

The thousands of pictures that youth but engraves 
On the shore where the spirit of Memory plays. 

Let me behold the homestead once more, 

Where gently I rocked in the cradle of youth, 
And sought but to share the joys of a child, 



16 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

While now as a man and not as of yore 
I act both in deed and practice in truth 
Life's sterner realities, pleasure beguiled. 

Oh ! let me to wander the old orchard o'er, 
And let me to see the few moss-covered trees 
That remain but to sigh in musical moan, 
Whispered by winds in lyrical lore 

Through the few shattered branches that hang in 
the breeze 
That they're left but as relics of yore all alone. 

The old rustic cabin that stood by the road 
Whose portals I ofttimes have entered with glee 
Is no more to be seen on that once sacred spot, 
But now in its place there stands an abode 
More beautiful far, yet as dear e'er to me 

As the home where my wife served her maiden- 
hood lot. 

The old barn of logs, with its ponderous doors 
That hung on their old oaken hinges for years, 
And screeched as they swung in the wild winter 
air, 
And the rafters, and beams, and tough puncheon floor 
Have crumbled to dust, yet the spot it endears 
With a modern barn, more finished and fair. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 17 



AUTUMN 

t*"T*IS Autumn and the chilling frost 
* Is falling on the wold ; 

The emerald of the leaf is lost 
Beneath the hue of gold. 

The verdant carpet o'er the lea 
Is growing brown and bare, 

While stripped the stately forest tree 
Moans sadly here and there. 

The aster of the wood is dead 
And scattered o'er the dale, 

No more it bends its blooming head 
Under the passing gale. 

The myrtle and the ivy bloom 
No more in festoons weave 

About the door and latticed room 
Or trail along the eave. 

The songsters of the wood have flown, 
Have sought a sunnier clime, 

Have left us to the earth alone 
Without their silvery chime. 



18 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 



THE TRAMP 



HOW long is the road, 
How dreary the track, 
How heavy the load 

That burdens my back, 
As onward I tramp 

O'er millions of ties, 
While the heat and the dust 
Are blinding my eyes. 

The pebbles, they yield 

To the touch of my feet, 
But my shoes fail to shield 

Where the gravel doth meet 
With the sole of the shoe 

Which nature hath wrought, 
And the blood in my tracks 

Betrayeth my lot. 

How swiftly the steed, 

Without bridle or rein, 
Aye! onward doth speed 

With high laden train ; 
And I pause, and I see 

It's breathing of fire, 
While I list to the rumble 

Of wheels on the tire. 

How quickly along 

Doth it speed with its load, 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 19 

While inward the throng 

Looks out on the road 
Mid the cloud of the dust 

In the wake of the train, 
And curse what they see, 

The wandering swain. 

Yet, onward I plod, 

In the dust and the rain, 
For many a year, 

But ever in vain 
Do I harp thus my life 

On my discorded lyre 
As I list to the notes 

Of the wind and the wire. 



THE CABIN IN THE CLEARING" 

f-pIS "the Cabin in the Clearing/' 
* By the little patch of corn 
With its silken tassels, waving 
In the breezes of the morn. 

How I love that ancient cabin, 
With its rafters bending low 

With the seed corn, and the pumpkin, 
From the little field below. 

See, above the smoky mantle 
Hangs the winter store of meat, 



20 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Of the venison and turkey, 
Fitted food for kings to eat. 

See the crane, within the chimney, 
Swinging in the roaring blaze, 

Bearing to and fro the kettle, 

Filled with simmering, snowy maize. 

In the forks above the door-way 
Lays the flint-lock, loaded well, 

For the prowling wolf and wildcat, 
Of the deep sequestered dell. 

Here I hear the merry music 
Of the spindle and the wheel, 

With the clatter of the shuttle, 
And the creaking loom and reel. 

But that Cabin's gone, forever; 

Aye ! its tale has long been told, 
And it's dust adown the river 

Mingles with the island's mold. 



LOST LENOLA 

AT THE coming of the twilight, 
• Near the heatherland of dreams, 
Pause I, on the mystic border, 

Where the sunlit shadow gleams; 
And a spirit floats before me, 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 21 

Like the zephyrs, wafting o'er me 

In a golden light gondola; 

I now recognize Lenola, 

As the long lost spirit maiden 

From the temple mosque of Aidin. 

Lost Lenola, long forgotten, 

Radiant Asiatic maiden, 
Priestess of the muse and fancy, 

Was this classic child of Aidin; 
Maid of mosque, and maid of story, 
Maid of sorrow, maid of glory; 
One whose sinless soul hath left us, 
And whose form hath long bereft us 
In the isle of golden meadows, 
In the mystic mosque of shadows. 

Princess of the Persian muses, 

Long forgotten, lost Lenola, 
On the stream of rhyme and roses 

Passes not her light gondola, 
For her spirit dwells in heaven, 
And her dust is homeward driven; 
Aye ! her urn has long been broken, 
And there is no sign or token 
Left to mark her path to glory, 
Or to tell her lyric story. 

Ah ! the mosque is still and silent, 
E'en silent as the "darkened room," 

For no prayer is raised to heaven 
Over lost Lenola's tomb, 



22 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

But the chanting bells remember 
Near the never dying ember 
On the Zorastorian altar, 
And I hark the words, and falter, 
"Cometh ne'er again Lenola 
In the muses light gondola." 



THE LAST OF THE MIAMIS 

ONE by one in the silent tomb 
The red Miamis are falling, 
One by one from the Darkened Room 
Each name the Great Spirit is calling. 

One by one do the warriors fall 

In the eve of their power and glory; 

One by one do they read to us all 
In their death a sorrowful story. 

One by one do they leave the land 

Where fought their fathers before them, 

Drifting away like grains of sand 

To the stream, where the water runs o'er them. 

One by one do they go to that clime, 
The Hunting Grounds over the river, 

Defying the stroke of the cycle of Time, 
They'll chase in that woodland forever. 




GABE GODFREY, CHIEF OF THE MIAMIS 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 23 

One by one is the birchen canoe 

Chained up on the bank of the river, 

While its spirit has gone to partake of the new, 
A gift of the Bountiful Giver. 

No more we hear the plash of the oar 

Of the Indian fisherman gliding 
In his dug-out canoe from isle and shore 

To the pools where the fishes are hiding. 

There are the graves of warriors at rest, 
Neath the shade of the elm and the willow, 

From the hills and dales of the distant west 
To the shore by the bounding billow. 



THE OL' FISHIN' HOLE 

t^T^WAS a bend in the creek just back o' the farm 
* That was known far and near as the "oY fishin' 
hole," 

To me as a boy it presented a charm, 

Whose picture forever will hang in my soul. 

The waters above, they rippled along 

Over the pebbly bed of that wonderful stream, 

With the musical charm, to me of a song 
That the fairies had sung to me in a dream. 

How many a day, when my work was all done, 
Have I hurried along with tackle and pole, 



24 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

To bathe my vexed nature in an ocean of fun 
By jerking revenge from that "ol' fishin' hole." 

How I loved oft to sit on the old sycamore 
And fish in the foam where the water was still, 

Catching shadows of fish for hours, nothing more, 
With sometimes a bite to strengthen my will. 

Then again have the sucker, the "red-hoss" and cat 
All suffered alike from the bait on my hook, 

And I thought it a haven of bliss, while I sat 

Watching bubbles float by near the bank of that 
brook. 

Years have flown by and the old sycamore 
With the drift that it made have floated away, 

While the "ol' fishin' hole," we know it no more, 
For the spot where it was, is a cornfield today. 



APRIL SHOWERS 

SHOWERS, showers, yes April showers, 
How I love to sit at the window for hours, 
And look at the drops as they pattering fall 
On the walk, and arbor, and pavement wall, 
And eddy away in a silver stream, 
As quickly as thought or the lines of a dream. 

Rain, rain, yes the beautiful rain, 

That pattering falls on the shingle and pane ; 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 25 

It covers the earth with an emerald hue 

And mantles the bloom with purple and blue ; 

It gladdens the soul of th,e son of the soil, 

And moistens the glebe for the hand of his toil. 

Flowers, flowers, yes April flowers, 

That bloom on the heather and over the bowers, 

That laden the breeze with the breath of perfume, 

That gladden the soul on the brink of the tomb; 

How I love oft to bind in a radiant wreath 

These beautiful gems fresh plucked from the heath. 

With the sun and the flowers comes the warbling 

throng 
From the fields of the south with chirrup and song ; 
The lark and the linnet, the bluebird and jay 
Sing the anthem of Morn at the dawn of the day, 
And make the glad woods with melody ring 
While they sit on the boughs in the breezes and swing. 



THE COLLEGE OF THE WOOD 

IN AN opening in a clearing 
Stands a cabin made of logs, 
Where our fathers chanted lessons 
To the music of the frogs. 

Close beside this rustic cabin 
Flowed a tiny babbling brook, 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Hither, thither through the woodland 
Bending like an angler's hook. 

'Tis the schoolhouse that our fathers 
Called the "College of the Wood" ; 

And I e'er revere that title 
As one that's ever good. 

Here were benches made from saplings 

Split in halves with legs below ; 
While upon the flattened suface 
Sat the school of long ago. 

In the wall there was an opening 
Which they pasted paper o'er, 
And they called this same a window, 
Giving light and air galore. 

Desks for books they had not any, 

But a shelf along the wall 
Held the writing pupil's paper, 

And at night the books for all. 

In the middle of the cabin 
Was a hearth of earthen red; 

While the chimney was an opening 
In the roof just over head. 

Fronting all, the puncheon table 
Stood beside the master's stool, 

With its surface scarred with "figgers," 
And with many a written rule. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 27 

Yet above the ancient doorway 

There remained the royal gad, 
Which had checked the bitter feelings 

Of the backwoods lass and lad. 

As I leave the rustic cabin 

Seems I hear the chanting school, 

With an interlude of weeping, 
And the master's welting rule. 



THE OLD FARM 

MANY years have long been banished 
To the desert of the Past, 
Many days have come and vanished 
Since I saw the old farm last. 

Now my thoughts like birds of passage. 

Scan the field of youthful years, 
And they search each glen and valley 

For the hidden spring of fears. 

O'er the old farm long I wander 

In the byways as of yore, 
And upon the past I ponder 

As I oft have done before. 

Here I see a fence is missing, 

One erected by my hands, 
And behold, the briars and thistles 

Have possession of the lands. 



28 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

There's a giant oak decaying 
Which in yore was verdant green, 

And ere long it will be lying 

Low, a mouldering pile, I ween. 

All the orchard trees have perished 
By the withering winds of years ; 

E'en no twig is left to tell us 
Of the cause of youthful tears. 

Now I turn my course and straightway 
Pass in through the old barn door, 

And as once I ope' each gateway, 
And I walk the puncheon floor. 

Here and there a sill is rotting, 
And the beams seem giving way, 

While the clap-board roof is plotting 
Soon to mix with mire and clay. 

In this same old barn I've rambled 
All the merry summer day, 

And with children, I have gamboled 
O'er the mows of new mown hay. 

Yes, and when the welcome harvest 
Came around with torrid heat, 

Toilers worked to glean and gather 
And here mow the golden wheat. 

Next I pass the cabin threshold 
And upon the ancient hearth, 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 29 

Long I stand there while reviewing 
Scenes of transitory earth. 

Scenes of long ago, forgotten, 
Now come rushing on my mind, 

And with fondest recollections 
Lovingly become entwined. 

Long I scanned the walls and ceiling 

Covered with the dust of years, 
And the books, and stool, and cradle, 

Common stock of brother peers. 



GRUBBING 



LIKE "a dog at a root," 
' In a tangle of shrubs 
With mattox and axe 

The buccaneer grubs, 
And pulls from its place 

Of alluvial dirt, 
The hazel and briars, 

Till he rippeth his shirt 
From collar to waist 

On the snag of a sprout, 
And sweats as he swears, 

Till he finally tears 
The garment away from the sleeves 

And nothing he leaves, 



30 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Neither sprout or twig 
That pesters his life 
Both little and big. 

The scythe and the briars 

They never agree, 
And quarrel where they lie, 

While the reaper doth flee 
Away from the scene 

Of contention and strife, 
With a vow that he'd clean 

Up the whole patch of briars 
At the risk of his life, 

And burn in a girt 
With the thought that the fires 

Might atone for the shirt. 

But soon doth the blaze 

Like a hurricane run 
In the bramble and grass 

'Round the buccaneer son, 
And he heaveth a sigh 

Mid the smoke of the wood 
While a tear in his eye 

Betrayeth his mood. 

Soon, alas, doth a coal 
With his pantaloons meet 

And burneth a hole, 

Till the smouldering heat 

Is visibly felt 

Like a million of ants 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 31 

Gnawing his hide 

In the cloth of his pants. 
And he finds when the smoke 

Of the battle is gone, 
He's left in the poke 

With one breeches leg on, 
While the other remains 

To burn with the trash, 
And tell of his pains 

To the dust of the ash. 

Soon he homeward doth go 

At the close of the day, 
And dreams of his woe 

While sleeping he lay, 
And vows as he sleeps 

He never will hoe, 
Nor clean up again 

Another fence row. 



AN EVENTIDE ELEGY 

HARK ! I hear the curfew calls, 
O'er the hills and castle walls 
From the distant Scottish lea 
To the cliffs beside the sea. 

How its echoes richly roll 
Through the corridors and halls 
Of the temple of my soul. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Sweetly from that crumbling tower 
Curfew wells the evening hour 
Of the world's surcease from care 
And the time for rest and prayer ; 
As the twilight fades in gloom 

I list to the tale it tells 
Through the tower and charnel room, 

"Time is dying," curfew wells. 

Yea, I hear the huntsman's horn 
From the field of barley corn, 
As he homeward lugs the chase 
Tired and tattered with the race 
Through the thicket of the thorn, 

Through the undergrowth of pine, 
Through the fields of ripening corn 

To his wife, his household shrine. 

Now the clansmen of the glen, 
Douglas lads and Douglas men, 
Leave their cottage home and hearth 
In the care of God and earth, 
And they meet to strike the foe 

Neath the cover of the night, 
And to lay the tyrant low 

In defense of life and right. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 



VACATION 

WHEN the long summer days 
Of vacation have come, 
And the sun sends his rays 

From his azure blue dome 
In a torrent through rifts 

Of the cumulus cloud 
As it lazily drifts 

Through a glimmering shroud, 
I feel like a kettle 

Of boiling intents, 
Without purpose or mettle — 

I mean without cents. 

To the homestead I go 

To spend my vacation, 
And tell all that I know 

Of a teacher's vexation; 
His joys and his sorrows, 

The surcease he borrows 
From books and from papers 

And 'gogical capers 
Of American youth. 

The heat, how it hisses, 
How it boils and bubbles ; 

It minnifies blisses, 
And magnifies troubles 

To the seeker of shade. 
The poor little creature, 



34 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

He's so punily made 
They call him a teacher. 

Oh, my head ! how it aches 

In this sun, broiling hot. 
I sigh for the "shakes" 

In the place of this lot. 
Hie me to shadows 

Of maple and birch; 
For the joys of the meadows 

I'm tired of the search. 

Take me back to my school 
In the dell, where the cool 
Gentle zephyrs blow past; 
There to work till the last 
In my mission for Truth. 



MY MOTHER'S GRAVE 

MY MOTHER'S grave, 
Above it wave 
The long and tangled locks of grass, 
O'er it play 
All the day 
Daisies fanned by winds that pass. 

All day long 
The thrush's song 
Is warbled with so sweet a sound ; 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 35 

Each dawn 

Brings on 
The songster to that silent mound. 

The golden leaves 

From hawthorn greaves 
Fall gently o'er my mother's form ; 

From bushy fen 

From glade and glen, 
Come tributes ere the wintry storm. 

The snow cloud 

Brings a shroud 
And winds it 'round that lonely urn ; 

It comes, it goes, 

The falling and the melting snows 
Like scenes of life they go, return. 

The springtime sun 

Brings one by one 
The tender flowerets from the dust, 

Some red, some white as snow, 

They bud and blow, 
And fall before the April gust. 



THE OLD ARM CHAIR 

TO AND fro across the floor, 
Fifty years perhaps or more, 
Has that aged rocking chair 
Borne to rest, aye many a care. 



36 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Rocked its mission, fifty years, 
Soothing souls and drying tears 
Of the aching mind and frame 
Of the weary and the lame. 

Ofttimes when a babe I've crept 
Into e'en that chair and slept 
While my mother breathed a prayer 
On me in that old arm chair. 

Rest no more do I e'en there, 
Know I not that mother's care, 
For in death amid the gloom 
She sleeps within the darkened room. 

Could it tell its story o'er 
And its many secrets pour 
Forth, 'twould bless a myriad dead 
Who in it have rocked and read. 

Still a keepsake does it stand, 
Handed down from hand to hand, 
And will tell in mystic lore 
Its missioned time yet fifty more. 



AN INDIAN RESERVE REVERIE 

WAL folkses hits bin forty years jist today 
Since I entered my fust quarter section o' land, 
An' my how them years has dwindled away, 
Yet a day at a time, like the grains o' the sand 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 37 

Dribblin' down through the hour glass o' Time. 

Yes, Betsy an' me, we come to the west 
When the forest was green, an' nothin' amiss, 

An' we've bin workin' away, as seemed to us best 
Through these years that have brought both sorrow 
and bliss 

Many threads in our weaving of rhyme. 

Yes, Betsy an' me, we cut down the trees, 

An' we hewed 'em an' laid up the ol' cabin walls, 
An' we daubed up the cracks to keep out the breeze, 

An' with cla'boards we kivered it all 
To keep out the sleet, the rain an' the snow. 

The chimbly was built of mortar an' straw 
With a fire place below, so broad an' so high, 

With a draft so mighty that need be would draw 
Half a cord at a time into smoke to the sky 

While the coals would remain to sparkle below. 

The kitchen, an' parlor, an' bedroom were one 

With a pantry jist over the jamb, 
While over the door in the forks lay the gun, 

While the "punkin," an' seed corn, an' yam 
Hung in rows to the beams overhead. 

The shelves, an' the table o' cla'boards were made, 
An' the benches o' logs even shorn, 

An' the floor out o' puncheons, with cracks overlaid 
With mats from the husk o' the corn, 

That served us as well for carpet an' bed. 

The broad, heavy door was made from a slab, 
An' on great wooden hinges it swung, 



38 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

While from the latch the sole leather tab 

Out on the end o' the latchet string hung, 
An' bore a glad welcome to all. 

Our critters we kept in a stable o' poles, 
An' we fed 'em in mangers we made out o' brush, 

While the hogs, an' the geese frequented the holes 
By the pond in the calimus slush 

Till they come at the feedin' time call. 

Yes, Betsy and me, we cut down the trees, 

An' we niggered, an' rolled into heaps, 
An' many a night we worked busy as bees 

To trash up that clarin' for keeps, 
An' burn up the logs an' the trash ; 

An' when every bit o' the clarin' was done 
We broke it with jumper an' hoe, 

An' then with a plow the long furries run, 
Then planted the corn in a row, 

To grow in the dust o' the ash. 



DREAMS 



IN MY cabin sat I only 
In the eventide so lonely, 
Dreaming of the spectered shadows 
Creeping o'er the hills and meadows, 
And the fairies flit before me, 
As from out my hand they flurry 
To and fro across the table, 
And they seem to make a babel 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 39 

Of my pile of ancient lore 
Stacked upon the oaken floor. 

Oft they'd come and oft they'd leave me 
And as oft they'd vex and grieve me, 
When alike the dying ember 
Would each fairy, mystic member 
Leave me still to nod and wonder, 
And to snore, — I dreamt 'twas thunder, 
When all at once from out the plunder 
In the corner came a woman, 
Fairest of all fair that's human, 
And I thought her gently basking 
In my arms and was just asking 
Her to be my dearest Molly, — 
Here to have her do my baking 
And my patching and my making, — 
When at once the true and trusted 
Left me and the vision busted. 

Suddenly I heard a mumble 
Then there came a mighty tumble, 
And amidst the clash and clatter 
I there knocked the crock of batter 
Out upon the oaken floor, 
And I vowed I'd never grumble 
And I'd nod so never more. 



40 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 



WINTER 

HE'S come at last. Old winter's here 
Come voices from the street; 
Yes, here to stay nigh half the year 
And make our joys complete. 

The circle of the season moves 

A mystic round of change; 
The scenes of death, of life and love 

Are bounded by its range. 

The harvest time of wheat has come 

The autumn plucking past ; 
Beside the roaring fire at home 

The farmer takes repast. 

Yes, calmly waits the springtime sun 

To melt the crystal snow, 
To warm the earth, that one by one 

The seeds may germinate below. 

Half dozing sits beside the fire 

The lordly, landed swain ; 
His weary brain becomes the sire 

Of dreams of golden grain, 

That wave in acres o'er the lea 

Beneath a summer's sun, 
While mutters to himself that he 

A life's half course hath run ; 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 41 

And coffers now no fuller seem 

Than when the course began, 
Though into it flows e'er the stream 

That makes of greed the man. 

The spindles and the wheel of yore, 

That once whirred hours away, 
Beside the winter fire no more 

Hum a sweet roundelay. 

They've taken places with the things 

That made the pioneers, 
Their songs are sung; yet ever rings 

Their dirge adown the years. 

The house wife now so nimbly plies 

The shuttle with its thread, 
And to its task the needle flies 

So swiftly at her tread. 

The children now so comely grown 

i\.round the table sit, 
And ply aloud and now alone 

Their repartee and wit. 

Their college lives have made them men, 

Well fitted for a sphere 
Of higher, nobler life, than when 

Man's brawn was mental peer. 

The blinding sheet of crystal snow 
In fairy eddies falls, 



42 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Borne by the gusty winds that blow 
From chill Thorean halls. 

The jingle of the bells so sweet 
Like silver vespers ring, 

As chargers dash along the street 
As heralds of a king. 

The icy mantled pool and lake 
Cracks to the skaters steel; 

The glassy floor it seems to quake 
At the touch of his iron heel. 

The school boy plies his busy trade 

Of placing men in forts, 
Then sees the things that he has made 

Destroyed in warlike sports. 

So oft we build high castle moles 
Then tear them down with play, 

And fail to build the men with souls 
That live eternally. 



MARCH 



HEAR the whisking of the breeze 
Through the northern sea of pines, 
As the breath of cruel Thor 
Waging elemental war 
With the frosted clump of vines 
And the icy mantled trees. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 43 

Aye the cat bird and the wren 
From the shaggy locks of fir 
On the long deserted land 
Of the southern sunny sand, 
Sing unto the winds astir 
Notes that March has come again. 

Hark ! I hear the rolling peal, 
Mid the rocky crags and caves, 
Where the shore and ocean meet ; 
Tis the winds of March that greet, 
And that kiss the lashing waves, 
As they from the north land steal. 

How the hurried breath of Spring 
Comes adown the wooded dell 
Bending low the maple tree, 
And the hemlock in its glee, 
While the orchard trees all tell 
They too have felt the old March king. 



MY GRANDMOTHER'S ROCKER 



HOW my grandmother's rocker that stood by the 
wall 
In visions I often its shadows recall ; 
Love to fix in my mind in my wandering dreams, 
That old-fashioned rocker, as used to it seems. 



44 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

How I love oft to dream of my grandmother's face 
As she smiles while she sits in her old, honored place, 
In the nook that I cherish to often recall, 
So cozy and snug nigh the hearth and the wall. 

That time honored chair no more does it rock 
To and fro o'er the floor to the tick of the clock, 
No more do its shadows flit over the floor 
In the rays of the sun through the half open door. 

No more do the children climb over its arm 
Into grandmother's lap from danger and harm, 
No more does she rock them to sleep with the tune 
Of "Old Mother Goose" or "The Man in the Moon." 

To and fro did it go for eighty long years 
Performing its mission mid gladness and tears, 
But at last from its age did it tottering fall 
In its long honored place by the hearth and the wall. 



DEBT 



GONE on the winds of the morn of my life, 
Vanished like, spirit like, wafted away, 
Went the ship of Good Fortune from scenes of my 
strife, 
And left me, bereft me, in the billowy way. 

Left me alone in the ocean of Debt, 

Nearly friendless, defendless, the breakers to meet; 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 45 

All alone with my fate my cause to abet, 

And bravely, yet gravely discouragements meet. 

Left oarless and rudderless out in the seas, 

Floats my barque in the dark and the gloom of the 
night, 

But ere long with our sail which catches the breeze 
We'll be borne full at morn to the port that's in sight. 



OUR UNNUMBERED DEAD 

SCARCELY has the boom of cannon 
Ceased to echo in the land, 
And the thunder of the battle 
Died upon the southern sand : 

Scarcely has the smoke ascended 
From the rolling cannon's mouth, 

And the strife of war has ended 
In the distant sunny south : 

Scarcely has the clang and clatter 

Of a million steeds of war, 
Ceased to greet our wearied hearing 

From the bloody field afar : 

Scarcely have the groans of heroes 
Ceased to echo on our ears, 

And the moans of dying thousands 
Ceased to rouse our many fears : 



46 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

When we hear across the ocean 

Millions marshaling for war, 
And the roll of empires calling 

To the bivouac from afar. 

Hark! It seems I hear the music 
And the distant martial tread, 

And the roll seems surely beating 
For the gath'ring of the dead. 

Though that strife of blood and thunder 

Is as yesterday to me, 
Yet more than two score years have vanished 

Since Sumpter crumbled by the sea. 

Yet we gladly do remember 

All the acts of heroes dead, 
And we wreathe their graves in honor 

Of the deeds for which they bled. 



THE OUTCAST 

A BLINDING sheet swept through the street 
Of crystal snow and misty rain 
And eddied on across each lawn 
To strike upon each window pane. 

A dismal sound like this around 

Struck e'en with dread upon the ear, 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 47 

And sent a thrill as if to chill 
The fairest hopes of life so dear. 

The marble shaft whose steady draught 

Draws life into its final goal 
Gazed on the scene with looks serene, 

Yet such as mock the troubled soul. 

E'en while the gale with bitter wail 
Swept throughout the dismal town, 

A maid, once fair, with flowing hair 
Was in the storm that dashed around. 

Shame told the tale and left a trail 

Of trouble on that sunken cheek. 
Alas ! disgrace upon that face 

Was stamped there too by trials bleak. 

Yet o'er the stone she tread alone 

Till darkness dropped her curtains round. 

Then in her way, as if to pray, 
She sank in slumber to the ground. 

The moonlight glare shed faintly there 

Her light upon the icy street 
And ere the storm had lulled, a form 

Lay there, a corpse, with winding sheet 

Of snow and misty rain and sleet. 



48 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 



TEARS 

SOME tears that are shed are but raindrops 
From the clouds of sorrow and pain, 
That make up the river of Anguish 
That flows to the Stygian main. 

Such curse life's better emotions, 
Then waft them away in the flow, 

And damn life's higher devotions 
Forever to regions below. 

They fill up life's cup with the wormwood 
And wash, as the shells from the shore, 

Our efforts of childhood and manhood, 
And leave us a blank more and more. 

Each shed is a volume of sorrow, 
Which none but the sorrowful eyes 

Can read in the light of tomorrow, 
Across the sad Ocean of Sighs. 

Other tears are the drops of affection 

From the well-springs deep in our hearts, 

That are bidden at Heaven's direction 
To wash out the stain passion imparts. 

They seem but to bear us a token 

From our Father and the angels above, 

When we weep, as the Bible hath spoken, 
Like the Savior, the teardrops of love. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 49 



T 



AUTUMN LEAVES 



HE golden leaves are falling fast 
In woodland glade and glen, 
They rustle to the autumn blast 
Along the sedgy fen. 

The purple maples cast their coats 

Upon the grassy mounds ; 
They sing in harmony the notes 

Of Life's unceasing rounds. 

The oaken leaves by magic cling 

Close to the parent stem, 
Till the frosty winds of winter fling 

This spell away from them. 

The hawthorn rustles by the way 
And sighs a funeral song; 

Dame nature seems to mourn the day 
That brought this leafy throng. 

Old Frost, the painter, touches all 
With gold and auburn hue, 

And bids them hearken to the call, 
Of Death, that beckons you. 



50 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 



TO MY NEPHEW, HOMER 

ROLICKING, frolicking, busy boy, 
Cracking with fun 

Like a gatling gun, 
Ready to break his jar of joy 

With laugh and halloo 

Like drops of dew 
That spangle some childish rainbow toy 

For the sprites that dance 

On a sunbeam lance 
And crown him the Homer, le Roi. 

With his rickity, rackity, ripity rap 

And his ratty tat tat 

He pesters the cat 
And pinches her tail in a trap. 

He hatches a laugh 

When he hitches the calf 
To the cart with a rope and a strap ; 

He punches the pig 

And dances a jig 
For the chicks with his flipity flap. 

It was rattlety bang, and lickity lick 

Till Nanny she shied 

At her ghost and died 
And shuffled her hide with a trick ; 

They buried her bones 

Down under the stones 
In the lot with biddy the chick 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 51 

So glad at last 
That all was past 
With the lash of the hickory stick. 

Humpity dumpity, whoopity whoop 

He's gone like a dart 

With a calf and a cart 
And the noise of a cavalry troop 

With his flipity flop ; 

He never can stop 
Till he's rattled around the loop 

And heard the call 

Over the garden wall, 
"Come in or you'll die with the croup." 

To the klingety, klingety, klingety, klang, 

He went to the school 

Of the Golden Rule 
And beautifully, dutifully ciphered and sang; 

He learned to read 

And gather the seed 
Of beautiful flowers that trustfully hang 

Their heads and weep 

Ere they go to sleep 
To the dirge that the musical blue-bells rang. 

And yet withal 

Thou little flower 

With morn of life's bright glow 

Of joy upon the crimson cheeks 

Within the bower 

Of fair haired youth thou seeks 



52 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

To break thy bonds and know 

What is beyond thy ken, 

And woven in the coarser woof 

With the weavement warp of men 

Beneath the firm yet gentle cave 

Of Eva thy fair preceptress 

And those divinely taught 

To guide thy footsteps 

From whose heart altars 

Ariseth incense as a prayer 

To Him who hath wrought 

The mystery of life 

That thy footsteps may not falter 

Nor sinuous be thy path ; 

Watch well the earthen lamps 

That learning binds upon thy feet; 

Look to their fastenings 

That they entangle not ; 

See whether they give thee light 

Or be a cause of stumbling 

In the greater arena 

Thou must enter soon. 

May the nooning of thy day 

Far more a sesame be to bless 

The weary in thy way, 

And thy sundown golden 

With the gleam 

Of God's own righteousness. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 53 

TO THE HON. BENJAMIN S. PARKER 

Hoosier Bard 

in honor of his fiftieth birthday 

FIFTY years have come and gone 
Down the mystic stream of Time, 
And the greyer light of dawn 

Of his morn of prose and rhyme 
Hath departed long ago ; 

And beneath a summer's sun 
At the noontide of his life 

Doth he live and seek to know 
Where the deeper waters run 

In the Muses classic stream 
And where richer pearls are rife 

That adorn a poet's theme. 

Many years of ardent toil 

In the greenwood long ago 
As a tiller of the soil 

And disciple of the hoe, 
As a gleaner of the corn 

In the golden colored sheaf, 
As a woodsman toiling hard, 

Till the distant supper horn 
Sounded on his ear, relief 

From the scenes of weal and woe, 
Scenes which he as Hoosier bard 

Paints as acts of long ago. 



54 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Many years with powerful pen 

Did he wage a ceaseless war 
On the acts of vicious men, 

Acts which honest men abhor ; 
And the keen Damascus steel 

Of his sabre ne'er was bent 
In his conflict for the Right, 

While he made his foes to feel 
He would die but not relent, 

He would fall but never cower, 
Though around him in the fight 

Fell the missiles in a shower. 

Fifty years have flown away 

Like the phantom of a dream, 
Raven locks have turned to grey, 

Yet that furrowed brow doth gleam 
Forth the fire within his soul ; 

And his eyes of hazel hue 
Sparkle brighter with his age 

While his master mind doth toll 
To the "long ago" adieu, 

While his lyric pen in hand 
Writes his name as poet, sage, 

For his native Hoosier land. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 55 



MY GRANDFATHER'S CLOCK 

OH ! THAT old wooden clock that my grandfather 
had, 
That stood on the mantle-tree over the fire, 
That caused me to wonder when I was a lad, 

As it ticked off the hours on its musical wire, 
How I loved long to stand and to wait oftentimes 
In a chair by that clock and to list to its chimes. 

By the tick of that clock enchanted I stood, 
Many times, as I gazed on its wonderful face, 

Or sat by the hearth on a pile of fire-wood 

And thought of the clock, as it stood in its place, 

With its hands mysteriously turning around 

And its wheels whirring on, with a buzzing-like sound. 

Ah ! that old wooden clock no more does it chime, 
And tell of the hours that are passing away, 

No more does it tick to the movement of Time, 
And measure the moments to us day after day ; 

For fifty long years has it stood in its place 

And told us the time by the hands on its face. 

It has run down at last never more to be wound 
Up again by the hands of its owner of yore. 

Every wheel which is worn has ceased in its round, 
And the wire rings a chime to us never more, 

While we sigh as we look at that old wooden clock 

We hear from the past its silent tick-tock. 



56 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

TO MY BROTHER, JOHN J. FELLOW 
AND WIFE 

SIX and forty years ago, 
When the earth was wrapped in snow, 

Came a stranger to our door ; 
Lusty little lad of light, 
Somewhat bigger than a mite ; 

With a squall — forever more — 
Equal to an Irish wake, 
When old bedlam was at stake, 

As we waltzed him o'er the floor 
With a paragoric vial 
Trying hard to make him smile. 

Little royster came to us 
With a lot of fuzz and fuss, 

Filling all with wondrous joy ; 
Sister Lissy, Henry C, 
Shouted in their merry glee 

That the youngster was a boy. 
Baby brother, full of squall, 
Full as Nick of kick and sprall 

When he couldn't get his toy, 
And we had to cough 'er up, 
Baby doll or Billy pup. 

As the youngster grew apace 
He led pap a merry chase 

To keep in gunshot of his viz, 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 57 

Breakin' Billy goats to work 
With his double triggered jerk; 

All the road was counted his 
When old Billy with his cart 
Challenged every horse a start; 

Then it was his dander riz, 
And he shot with cart and kid, 
Like old Jehu riders rid. 

At the ghost of death he shied; 
Yet the Billy goat he died, 

Died because he couldn't live, 
Just because he went to drink 
From the bubbling crystal brink 

Of the spring, and in he div 
At the shadow of his such 
And he butted once too much, 

And he never more will give 
Aught for ashes to the chap, 
Who had taught him to gid-dap. 

Next a calf astride he rode 
Adown the muddy country road, 

Gave it the classic name of Buck; 
Tried to teach the lesson "Thee 
Better haw, 'er I'll make thee gee 

A rod around the muddy chuck ;" 
But in they went, the chap and calf, 
And from the stump there came a laugh, 

For in the middle there they stuck, 
And you "orter seed" the fun, 
And bet which spattered roadster won. 



58 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Hitch up Buck and drive away 
In an old jinrickishe; 

Or some times when the snows were deep 
He'd hook up to a sleigh and hie 
To the village, bye and bye ; 

And his comrades loved to leap 
Into the sled, and here they went 
Helter, skelter, mischief bent; 

But the roadster shied a "heap," 
And at last he spilled 'em out 
In a snowdrift mid a shout. 

Swimmin' was a special phase 
Of this royster's early days ; 

He could swim, er tread, er float, 
Er dive a circle in the crick, 
Walk his stilts, er turn a trick; 

Crack the Discipline by note, 
And sing a song Camp Meetin' style 
That quaked the Elders all the while, 

So down they classed him as a goat, 
For nothin' good but loaf and laugh, 
This singin' chap who rode the calf. 



Midst all these years 

Down deep a-heart 

Life's redder blood coursed through his veins. 

Life's greater songs he learned to sing 

In sadder strains, tuned to unseen chords, 

That seraphs strike upon their lyres, 

When souls are born into the kingdom of His Grace. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 59 

Beneath the bubbling surface of the brook 
A current clear and steady flowed 
Onward to the sea of boundless Life ! 
He caught the music of the spheres 
And learned unselfishly to sing 
"To love thy neighbor as thyself." 

The cares of life since youth's fair day 

Have ofttimes cast their gloom across his path, 

And plowed deep furrows in his face, 

And bent his shoulders with their weight. 

He boldly stands the struggle 

And the stress of counter currents, 

That strive to carry down to unknown depths ; 

And from the watch tower signals with his might 

Some sailless craft that plows the billows 

On the unknown seas of Doubt and Death, 

And points them to a portage safe and sure, 

Whose clearance knows no going out 

To boistrous seas again. 

For six and twenty years 

Thou and thy devoted wife have walked 

Through shadow and through shine. 

One flower divinely given yet remains 

To bless and sanctify the way. 

Once the Angel with his reaper came 

And garnered one, and knocked 

Yet twice again, but entered not 

Because of labor unfulfilled, 

And left with whispered words, 

"Here yet remain till closing of the day, 



60 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

And gather in more sheaves into my garner 
Ere you enter my silent corridors 
And lie down with the hosts unnumbered 
Gone before." 



FLOWERS 



WE PLUCK the flowers of love and truth, 
Adown the winding path of youth, 
And twirl the garlands in a wreath, 
And cast them on the fragrant heath 
Of Hope, to bloom a brighter hue, 
To drink the sun and sparkling dew, 
And with them sweeter thoughts entwine 
Our joys expectant and divine. 



TO OUR AGED GRANDMOTHER, 
JEMIMA STANLEY 

ON HER EIGHTY-SEVENTH BIRTHDAY 

AGED veteran of the cross, 
• For four score years and seven, 
Thou hast the sea of Life across 

Sailed smoothly toward the port of Heaven. 

Blest be the bonds that bind thee here, 
And thrice be blest thy deeds of love; 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 61 

Yea, acts that make thy life so dear 
To mortals and to those above. 

Long has the daystar of thy life 

Shown brightly in thy sky o'er head, 

And may it shine amid the strife 

Yet many years, though with the dead 

Thou slumbers, while above thy grave 

The tangled locks of frosted grass, 
Fanned by the Autumn winds e'en wave, 

And sigh a dirge as thy mourners pass. 

Thanks be to Him who reigns on high, 
Who hath thus blest thy life so long, 

Who hath thus brought our lives so nigh, 
That I can pen a rythmic song 

In memoir of thy life so grand, 

So noble, useful spent and true, 
Thy deeds of love on every hand 

That rise before my mind in view. 

May I thy grandson sing to thee 

A requiem song, a funeral dirge, 
When e'en the Angel Death to me 

Has said 'tis done and o'er the verge 

Of welcomed death, with palsied feet 

Thou steps, and wends thy way 
To Heaven's portal there to meet 

Thy joy supreme, the Lord of Day. 



62 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

THE WORLD AND CHURCH 
The World 

COLD blows without the wintry blast, 
Low hangs adrift the blinding sheet 
Of snow and misty rain and sleet; 
And all the earth seems overcast 
And shrouded in a funeral pall, 
A cold and pulseless corpse to all. 

The moral world moves cooly by, 
No time to bless the poor, nor save 
The struggling hero from the wave 

Of Adverse Fortune rolling high ; 

And every man, cursed be his sphere, 
Who knows another man his peer. 

The Formal Church 

The Formal Church seems deathly chill, 
A figure-head, with but a life 
Of inward turmoil, hate and strife; 

And seems its mission and its will 
To stab with many a cruel dart 
The earnest, honest, Christian heart. 

To God its prayers ascend with scorn; 

Pride reigns supreme in every mind ; 

Its worship is the fitliest kind 
To curse the living and unborn, 

And chime to them a funeral knell 

Whose peels fore'er resound in hell. 







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RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 63 

The Christian Church 

The Christian Church, blest be its cord 
That binds true hearts in one with God 
Who rules with Love His sceptered rod ; 

The church that knows the risen Lord 
To be its Savior, Christ and King, 
And unto Him its praises ring. 

A church, whose members know but love 
For every man, both rich and poor, 
In every clime, on every shore; 

A church whose grace is from above, 
Whose care and mission is to all 
To plead Redemption from the Fall. 



FARM BALLAD 

HOW oft I love at early morn 
To harness up the steed, 
And hasten to the field of corn 

Below the orchard mead, 
And plow, while from the east 

The sun is shining through 
The branching apple trees, 

And glistening in the dew 
Upon the satin blade 

That waves within the breeze 
Through streaks of sun and shade. 



64 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

The gentle zephyrs waft the bloom 

Adown the tassel rows, 
High laden with a rich perfume 

Of linden and the rose ; 
And fall like gentle showers 

From Peri's paradise, 
The garden of the gods 

And wildwood of the skies, 
Upon my head that nods 

To Him, who is all wise. 

The tiny stalklet upward grows 

Alike through shade and light, 
While on the roots the plowshare throws 

The loomy soil aright; 
And while the silken laden shoot 

Grows steadily in length 
Alike through sun and rain, 

So downward grows the root 
To give the stalklet strength 

To bear the golden grain. 

And when the evening shadows come 

Alike o'er glen and glade, 
I leave the field and hasten home, 

And then with angle spade, 
As well with line and hook, 

I seek retreat and rest 
Beneath the maple shade 

Beside the babbling brook, 
And catch the spotted trout 

Upon the baited crook 
That bears the worm about. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 65 



THE LONG AGO 

NO MORE we hear the merry shout 
Of huskers for the corn, 
Who gathered in for miles about, 
When signaled by the horn. 

No more we see those pioneers 

Tearing with measured sweep 
The husk from off the golden ears, 

And casting in a heap. 

No more the score of yeomen strong 

Assemble on the scene 
With spikes to bear the logs along, 

And roll for neighbor Green. 

Aye ! the fires the heaps of oak 

Have burned long, long ago, 
And on the gale the ash and smoke 

Have settled with the glow. 

No more the ruddy lasses meet 

To toil with wheel and brake, 
While some at kneading strive to beat 

The frolic johnny-cake. 

No more the cabin's puncheon floor 

With dancing feet resounds, 
While four score hands in "all hands four' 

Join in the giddy rounds. 



66 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

No more we hear the violin 

Nor merry frolic dance, 
But memories e'en of such again 

Some minds and thoughts entrance. 

Yes, where's the old log church today 
That stood beside the stream, 

Where oft our fathers met to pray 
And help mankind redeem? 

Tis gone to dust; the oaken walls 

Are buried in the earth ; 
The dust has drifted down the falls 

Toward the far-off isle of birth. 

How quickly has the hand of Time 
Laid bare his mighty arm ; 

Has cleared the field and rung a chime 
Of change o'er town and farm. 



THOUGHTS 



IIFE is a jostling train 
* The mind its mighty steed, 
The soul the engineer; 
On like the thundering main 
It rushes with lightning speed 
With thoughts for passengers. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 67 



THE BACHELOR'S HALL 

OH ! WONDERFUL shack is a bachelor's hall, 
With its scattered ware and dingy wall, 
W T ith its broken dishes and harness rings, 
With its knives and forks and hempen strings 
All heaped together in a cupboard shelf, 
The stock and store of a bachelor elf. 

With a broken hinge and many a scar, 

The door of the hall is swinging ajar; 

Is banging away like a battledore, 

And creaks as it swings like a bachelor's snore; 

And makes one think of the door of the Ark 

That good Noah made out of Chittam bark. 

Here are chickens, a hundred or more, 
Roosting around on the stove and floor, 
Chirping away in a musical strain 
As the bachelor scatters the golden grain 
Around upon benches and backless chairs 
And the broken steps of the rickety stairs. 

Here, leafless and almost legless, stands 
A table constructed by bachelor hands ; 
And by it looks on so candidly cool 
The slightest remains of a broken stool ; 
While nestled close by so cozy and snug 
Is a Thomas cat asleep on a rug. 

Scattered around are his skillets and pails, 
Supported by benches and headless nails ; 



68 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

While a dish and a half or two are seen 
O'erladen with scraps and a rusty bean 
And a broken rib of an ancient veal, 
The sad remains of a bachelor's meal. 

His hound, a wonderful dog is he, 

If eating of bread and catching a flea 

Are truthful traits of a nature bold ; 

This hall could never this canine hold, 

So he ran by a wire and a rusty chain 

From the barn to the house in the heat and the rain. 

I love to sit and in visions recall 

The fanciful scenes of a bachelor's hall ; 

To dream of him stitching with needle and thread, 

Of him darning his socks and kneading his bread, 

And to think of him working a rickety churn 

That's run by a crank with a musical turn. 



THE OUTCAST'S LAMENT 

OUT on the ocean of Life so drear 
I wander so lonely, so troubled with fear; 
Thinking, yes, knowing, that never a tear 
Of Love will fall on the head of my bier. 

Out on the distant wilderness wild, 

I wander an outcast, pitiful child, 

That none care to help, but all seem beguiled 

To curse my existence, outcast and defiled. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 69 

The gloom and the shadow, they hover around, 
The wing of the tempest sweeps over the mound, 
And chills every vestige of life in its round, 
And blasts all the hopes that an orphan e'er found. 

The storm clouds of life may thunder and roll, 
And may lighten me down to the last mortal goal ; 
But never a chime on yon steeple will toll 
The last sad rites of my perishing soul. 



THE WELL OF YORE 

AH ! TO and fro across the well 
■ Has that oaken bucket swung 
For fifty years perhaps or more, 

Although in silence has it hung, 
It doth its story ever tell 
Of its mission long of yore. 

Yes, perhaps a thousand times 

Has that oaken bucket fell 
In the crystal flood below, 

In the dark resounding well, 
And the rippling water chimes 

On the vessel hanging low. 

How many times that ancient sweep 
Has creaked upon the noon-day air, 

While lowing herds come down the dale, 
From barn and yard and every where, 



70 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

And 'neath the pond'rous lever creep 
To drink the water from the pail. 

How oft the teamster loves to stop 
Beside the well, and let his team 

Drink from the trough to quench their thirst, 
While into it he pours a stream ; 

But soon to let the bucket drop 
To rise again as full as first. 

The creaking of that ancient sweep 

Is just a song of long ago, 
Which but our fathers ever knew. 

Yes, we have stood and heard its low 
Discordant notes, that made us weep 

While thinking of the old and new. 

The crumbling curb, the rotten gum 
That stands half sunken in the earth, 

The fence around, that father laid, 
Are precious relics, rich with worth 

To all the wondering ones that come 
To view the well our fathers made. 



TO MY LITTLE COUSIN, MARY MARTIN 

LITTLE lance of sunshine, 
' Little angel smile, 
Little sylph of Undine — 
Here a little while. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 71 

Little tiny sunbeam 

From the farther shore, 
Sweeter than a nymph-dream 

Of some ancient lore. 

Rarest little jewel 

From the mine of Life, 
Sweeter than a dew well 

With its sweets so rife. 

Little rose of beauty 

From the garden "Love," 
Blessing you with duty, 

Given from Heaven above. 

Blessed little treasure 

From the throne of Him 
Who blesses without measure, 

Who fills our cups abrim. 

We love thy childish prattle, 

Thy sparkling little eyes, 
Thy joyous romp and rattle, 

With love that never dies. 

Sweet little Mary darling, 

So like an angel dream, 
A swift-winged Heaven starling 

A-flying down the stream. 

Go forth, thou blush of morning, 

And lighten up the skies 
Of sad hearts, thus adorning 

With the sunshine of thine eyes. 



72 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

THE DEATH OF TIME 

FROM the Eons hear the chime, 
'Tis the funeral dirge of Time 
Rung forth by the clanging spheres 
On the muffled bell of Years. 
And I hear a like refrain 
From the starry funeral train 
Moving through the azure clime, 
To the far-off tomb of Time, 
And there along its crumbling verge 
To toll as well Creation's dirge. 



REVERIES 



ROCKING, rocking, rocking, 
As I listen to the ticking 
Of the old wall clock on the stairs ; 
Tick, tock, rick, rock, 
To the creaking of the rocker, 
And the clicking of the knocker 
At the bidding of the wind unawares. 

Rocking, rocking, rocking, 

As I listen to the jingle 
Of the frosty Christus Kringle of the night 

Tick, tock, knickety, knock, 

To the creaking and the crackle 

Of the old flax hackle 
As it hackles in the flicker of the light. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 73 

Rocking, rocking, rocking, 

As I hearken to the sighing 
And the moaning of the wind down the burns ; 

Tick, tock, tock, tick, 

As I wait with bated breath 

On the edge of 'scared to death/ 
For the striking of the reel as it turns. 

Rocking, rocking, rocking, 

With the humming of the spindle, 
And the whirring of the great spinning wheel. 

Tick, tick, tock, tock, 

And the clatter and the rattle 

Of the old loom shuttle, 
As it flies through the warp of the reel. 

Rocking, rocking, rocking, 

While the kettle is a simmer 
On the crane o'er the great roaring fire. 

Tick, tock, knockety, knick, 

While the skillet is a popping, 

And the chatter never stopping 
Of the maidens, while at quilting never tire. 

Rocking, rocking, rocking, 

As I look into the embers, 
And I dream fantastic figures on the floor. 

Tick, tock, knock, knick, 

Ticks the old wooden clock 

To the rhythm of the rock, 
Till I'm dead to the thunder of a snore. 



PART II 



ROUND UP RHYTHM 



ROUND UP RHYTHM 



TO "NO-MAN'S-LAND" 

IN THE mist of the years agone, 
When "No-Man's-Land" was known afar 
As an orphan child that none would own, 
A homeless waif of the Texan Star ; 

Her rivulets danced in the burning sun, 
Her mirages shown like Aladdin dreams 

That lured the lost till the day was done, 

With their forests, and cities, and sparkling streams. 

Her billowy hills, like a rolling sea, 

Stretched far away t'ward the gate of Night, 

Her drifting sands by the River B, 
Seemed like a sun-tanned rift of light. 

Her meadows of grass along the creeks 

Shown like ribbons of emerald green ; 
The sunburn g'low of her hillside cheeks 

Made her a host's most worshipful queen. 

Over her valleys and plains and hills, 

Out to the edge of the world afar, 
There moved an ocean of life with thrills, 

A million of bison with billowy jar. 



78 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

The eagle, he circled the azure blue, 

And left his mate with her hungry brood; 

He sailed away with a vision true, 

And caught in his tallons their coveted food. 

He bore his eaglets far up in the sky 
Upon his pinions of wide expanse, 

Letting them drop with flutter and cry, 
Catching them up again at a glance. 

Up from her canyons the night wind sighed, 
Mingled with voices so wierd and wild ; 

Fireflies danced and a panther cried 
Like the death throe of a dying child. 

The day-dawn denizens of the sedge 
Carroled a song to the breaking day, 

The chipmunks scurried along the ledge 
To a shadowy shelf in the cliff of clay. 

Thus in a chorus all Nature rejoiced 

That the ill-fated star stood still in the sky, 

So long in the zenith, but now it is voiced 
In the song of the toiler and tiller for aye. 



IVANHOE 



O'ER the dip of the range, 
Where the sun goes down, 
Where mirages change 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 79 

From river to town ; 
Where the glare of the lights 

Play fanciful freaks 
In the dance of the sprites 

On the sunburnt cheeks 
Of the earth ; it is known 

A village far famed 
Stands out like a star 

With euphony named 
For a Scotch Lochinvar. 

When the shadows have flown 

Like Aladdin dreams 
With the coming of night 

And darkness, it seems 
To close with a curtain 

The casement of sight; 
Her wisp glow gleams 

Like daggers of light 
Hurled over the world 

Through the rifts of the gloom 
At fanciful phantoms 

Of the Darkened Room. 

When the day dawn breaks 

With her silvery sheen, 
Fair morning awakes 

With the stars unseen ; 
And the glow of the sun 

Strikes window and vane, 
Like a carnival fair 

For a queen of the plain ; 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

And I sit in the thrall 
Of the glitter and glow, 

Enchanted withal, 
Sweet name, Ivanhoe. 



ROUND UP TIME 
(To the rhythm "Of the Lope of the Bronc") 

tTI 7TID the glories of the sunset land I can stand 
1VJL With my hand above my brow, peering low 
Toward the shifting cloud of sand 
And the rushing cavalcade 
Of the cowmen from the Domo Ranchio ; 
Brilliant blankets lashed behind, 
And sombreros of the grande type atip, 
Sheepskin leggins dusty brown, from some Mexicano 

town, 
Sixty pesos saddle gear stout and strong 
With a mighty leather cinch meters long, 
Silver spurs and Spanish bits, 
Fiery broncs that measures wits 
With the booted cayouse buster of the plains. 

Now mid air and now afloat, 

Now astride and now afoot, 

Half a ride and walk to boot, 

Loaded up with cuss and dirt, 

Master of the rope and quirt, 

Unforgetful of the past and present pains, 




r IN THE ROUND UP OF THE YEAR'' 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 81 

Cuts the she stuff from the herd, 
Drives them to the pastures green by the creek, 
Where they drift without a word, 
Where the shadows are serene, dark and thick ; 
Lowing, stand there belly deep 
In the water cold and clear, chewing cud, 
Or dreaming on the bank near by asleep, " I wouldn't 
if I could/' 

Now they take the wider range for a month 

In the round up of the year, 

O'er the valley and the plain, 

Riding on from day to day and into the gloomy night, 

Through the sunshine and the rain, just the same, 

Looking for the branded stuff, 

Cutting out the sure enough from the strange, 

Eating little, drinking less, 

In this month of loneliness, 

In these weeks of strain and stress ; 

Loping on a dauntless tar 

On the bronco ship afar through the glen, 

Catching but a snatch of sleep now and then, 

While he lets his bronco drink 

From some muddy stagnant sink, 

Or perhaps a running stream by the bluff. 

When each rider makes his round, 

Having all the branded found, 

Cuts them out and starts ahead, 

Often led by the landmark of a hill, 

On across the grassy waste, brown and dead ; 

Often with a steer adrift, 



82 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Suddenly he makes a shift with the wind, 

Runs him down a mile or two, 

Burns him with the long lasso, 

When into the herd he runs tired enough 

With the running of his bluff. 

After weeks of ceaseless toil 

With their grind and with their moil 

And cross currents of an unexpected kind, 

From the compass far and near, 

Through the smoky atmosphere, 

Can be seen the horned herds 

Drifting toward the great corral of the Domo 

Ranchio ; 
Toward the shadows of the elms, dark and cool, 
Where the limpid waters lap in the spring-fed crystal 

pool. 
Here the thousand Texans rush 
With a jam and with a crush, 
With the thunder and the roar, 
Like the mutter of a storm, 
Or a regiment of cavalry aback rushing on 
Worn and weary from the range ; 
See them coming from the compass in a rolling cloud 

of dust, 
With the bellow of the bulls fighting mad, 
And the bawling of the calves for their dams, 
And the mooing of the cows as they rush ahead 
To the brink of the pool 
For a drink icy cool, 
Or the grass by the creek verdant green further on. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 83 

How the mastiffs of the herd, 

Mentors of each move and word, 

Run and guard the moving mass 

Drifting to the field of grass by the stream ; 

While the rounders take a rest, 

Worn and weary with the stress 

Of the weeks of loneliness, 

Neath the shadow of the elms ; 

And the master of the chuck doffs his spurs, 

Cooks a meal for epicures quick enough ; 

Coffee strong enough to talk, 

Butter old enough to walk in its teens, 

Flapjacks, Dixey, pork and beans 

Baked and mixed with cabbage greens ; 

Then he gave another toss with a little chili sauce, 

And perhaps a berry pie from the thicket nearest by, 

Sour enough to make you wry, wink your eye ; 

Water or a whiskey punch made a lunch for the bunch 

Of the worn and weary riders of the range. 

How they slept there in the shade 

Of that verdant everglade, 

How they dreamt of dearest friends 

In the very furthest ends of the earth, 

And they tried to lasso them 

With a rope of silky sheen 

From the loom of Amordine, 

But they broke and ran away 

At the dawning of the day. 

Sprites that lovers only know soon are flown 

When the gray light of the dawn cometh on, 



84 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

With the music of the mooing, and the cackle, and the 

cooing, 
And the crowing of the joyous life about them on the 

ranch. 
So they reckon with Pandora, and they gather up the 

tether she has left ; 
And they wrangle up their gear, 
With a laugh and with a cheer, 
As the dark and sunny days pass by and are gone. 



MY DUG-OUT HOME 

DOWN below the Kansas border, 
In the land of wind and shine, 
Stands a cottage made to order, 
Dear old dug-out home of mine. 

Dug into a lonely hillside, 
With a roof of brush and sod, 

Stands half hidden till the Yule-tide, 
In a lot of goldenrod. 

Close to nature is this peerage, 

Near some shimmering Zuyder Zee, 

Floating in a silver mirage 
O'er the sunburnt barren lea. 

Year by year had seen the souther 

Gather in my meager toll, 
And I felt that now another 

Threatened blight upon my soul. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 85 

Sitting in my dug-out lonely, 

Peering o'er the parching plain, 
Staking all, my last and only 

Sou, upon a drop of rain. 

In my cot I dream a dreamlet, 
While the shadows lengthen long, 

Close beside a little streamlet 
Laughing like a zither song. 

Catbirds call me from the thorn bush, 

Orioles warble from their nest 
In the tree tops, while the brown thrush 

Answers back a challenge test. 

Woodland shadows flit before me, 

Honeysuckles, trumpet vines 
In the thatch roof clamber o'er me, 

And each the other intertwines. 

Grass grown meadows by the river, 

Where the lowing cattle graze ; 
Where the herd bells tinkling quiver 

Somewhere in the sleepy maze. 

So the dream stream runneth ever, 
Through the sprite wood of the soul, 

With an urge that endeth never, 
Till it laps Life's tidal roll. 



86 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 



THE INDIAN SCARE OF 1885 

DEDICATED TO TWO OF THE INJUNS, "COLORADO RUBE* 
AND "ORDINARY RASTUS" 

DID you ever hear the story 
Of the pipe-dream of the hills, 
When some wranglers up the Beaver 
Hatched a batch of icy thrills? 

Froze the blood of every Nester, 

Chilled the marrow of his bones 
Till he couldn't tell a nothin' — 

Injun or a pile o' stones. 

'Twas in August, of the summer 

In the year of '85, 
When some rounders sent a hummer 

Of a sure enough alive 

Injun scare, that sent a quiver 

From the dug-outs of the plains 
To the palace of the nabob, 

Pilin' up ill-gotten gains. 

Big and little Rastus, brothers, 

Ordinary Rastus, too, 
With a half a dozen others, 

Made a rough and ready crew: 

Break a bronc or rope a Texan 
With a double-triggered jerk, 



e° 




RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 87 

Brand a critter, hang a Mexan 
Who would dare to draw a dirk. 

They had turned their broncs to pasture 

In the medder by the crick, 
Jist to rest 'em from the roundup, 

Eat their fill and buck a trick. 

Rube was cuttin' wood for winter 

In the sand hills to the north, 
Stackin' up, yes, every splinter 

For the camp-fire what was worth. 

But the Nesters up in Kansas 

Kept a stealin' from the pile ; 
So, thought Ordinary Rastus, 

We will do 'em Injun style; 

Scare 'em from the bush a plenty 

Till they'll never come again, 
Thinkin' it was ol' McGinty 

With a lot o' buck Cheyennes 

From their huntin' in the mountains, 

Whettin' for a scalpin' scrap, 
With a rustic Nester plummer 

Caught a pickin' in a trap. 

"Wal," said little Ras, "we've got 'em, 

In the thicket pickin' plums, 
From that frisky burg, 'Meade Center,' 

An' now's the time to show your thumbs. 



88 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

"Each one's come an' brought a wagon, 
Cans an' baskets, crocks an' pails, 

An' they're pickin' like the mischief, 
An' are scarin' up our quails. 

"Say, the funny thing about it, 

One ol' wagon has no bed ; 
Come a plummin' in sich fashion 

Is a little sing'lar, Red. 

"I'll jist bet my chips to twenty, 
Them fellers come to take a load 

From our wood-pile while it's plenty, 
So let's make 'em hit the road. 

"They must've picked a bar'l a ready, 

An' have eat a lot o' birds, 
An' are burnin' up our kindlin,' 

An' are lookin' at the herds 

"Jist as though they'd run a rustle 
When the dark is comin' on; 

So we'd bestus git a hustle 

Mighty quick, 'er they'll be gone." 

"Wal," said Ordinary Rastus, 
"Colo Rube, ye fix the boys ; 

Turn yer coats, 'er wear yer blankets 
Jist like fightin' Ute decoys. 

"I will go an' tell the Nesters 
They had better hit the trail 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 89 

Mighty quick, er somewhat sooner, 
Else they'll likely lose a pail," 

So the play was staged together 

With ol' Rastus in the lead, 
Gone to pull the plummer's tether, 

An' to tell 'em hike ahead. 

One he struck so very sudden 

That he tumbled down a hill 
With a bucket he had gathered, 

In one huckleberry spill. 

Davis, boast of all the country, 

From the Crooked Creek above, 
Had a gun that was a buster 

With the thunder of a Jove. 

You could train it on a coyote, 

Or a rabbit, so they tell; 
It would blow the one to atoms, 

An' the other one to Well, 

It wuz loaded fur an Injun 

Frum the muzzle to the stock, 
With four hundred kinds o' bullets, 

Jist enough to give a shock. 

They had kept the monster hidden, 

Close inside the wagon bed, 
With a premonition bidden, 

It wuz needed jist ahead. 



90 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

But when Rastus came upon 'em, 
Courage dropped a hundred pints, 

An' they struck a streak o' ager; 
Kinder stiffened up their jints. 

All excited, Ras, he thundered : 
"Youns better make yer git, 

Fur the Injuns they's a comin,' 
Not a mile from whar ye sit. 

"They's a scalpin' every Sooner, 
An' the Nesters, jist the same, 

Leavin' every shack an' dug-out 
In a tangled mess o' flame." 

Then said Mendenhall, the Quaker, 
"Davis, thee must take the gun, 

Guard the passage while I hook up 
An' prepare to make the run." 

Hooked they were in but a jiffy, 
An' they struck the runnin' gears 

Like a yaller streak o' lightnin' 
Jammin' thunder down yer ears. 

Now the Injuns were a bobbin' 
Up behind the sandy dunes, 

Yellin' like some wild Comanches 
With their idiotic tunes. 

Shootin' up a fog about 'em, 
An' a peckin' up the dust 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 91 

In the trail of the retreaters, 

Who were drivin' jist their wust. 

How that bedless wagon bobbled, 
Now on four wheels, now on two; 

An' the other rattled louder 

Than a band from Timbucktoo. 

Davis yelled an' drove 'em faster, 

Fired his blunder-buss a shot 
At the Injuns, with disaster 

To his kackelatin' pot, 

Fur she kicked 'im good an' plenty, 

Wusser than a bronco buck, 
An' he swore he'd go 'em twenty 

Better jist agin fur luck. 

Let 'em have another rattle 

Uv his a'jectives an' sich, 
While the Injuns close behind 'em, 

Pepped 'em up another stitch. 

Never stoppin,' never haltin' 

Till they struck the X. I. well, 
Jist an hour from whar they started, 

Fourteen miles without a spell. 

How they scattered plums an' buckets, 

Cans an' baskets on the trail, 
Planted plum seed like the mischief, 

Rattlin' from the wagon tail. 



92 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Fourteen miles of plums a plenty, 
Biggest plum patch in the west; 

If you cannot now believe it, 
Jist go off an' take a rest. 

Wal, that Injun scare, it scattered 
Like a double-triggered flash 

Of a lot o' zigzag lightnin' 
With a chain-stitch thunder crash, 

Clear across to old Quivira, 

From the dug-outs to the towns, 

How the Injuns on the Beaver 
Were a mowin' people down 

By the hundreds an' the thousands, 
An' were burnin' down their stacks, 

Killin' cattle, stealin' ponies, 

An' were shootin' up their shacks. 

Some in ox carts, some in wagons, 
Some on horse-back, some a foot; 

Some in gowns that were nocturnal, 
Some without a hat or boot, 

Rushin' like a Hun migration, 
Jammed the forts and rifle pits ; 

And perhaps there may be others 
Still perchance are goin' yit 

Up among the rocky summits 
Of the old New England hills, 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 93 

Scared at e'en the doleful drooning 
Of the wistful whippoorwills, 

Thinkin' that perhaps some Injun 

Is behind each rocky point ; 
That the witches are pursuing, 

And that things are out of joint, 

While ol' Reuben, with his children, 

Sits around the fire and smokes ; 
Tells the circumstance that started 

Greatest of all Injun jokes. 



MOVING 



THE greates' ijee that's under the sun 
Is movin' every year ; 
An' then to think when it is done, 
That anothern's awful near. 

Ye may figger it, dad, 
An' set 'er down 

To see how much they pay, 
But yer adder won't add 
When ye git to town, 

Fur she runs the tother way. 

It's a bigger house, an' a better barn, 

An' an automobiler to boot; 
It's rugs, an' sofies, an' ropes o' yarn, 

Pianners, an' toot-a-ma-root. 



94 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

It's parties, an' teas an' pidgeon wings, 
That put you in the red, 

An' ye may figger it 

Up, the more ye git, 
The less ye'll be ahead. 

So, go to the farm an' stay, my boy, 
An' quit this movin' craze, 

An' hoe an' plow 

And milk the cow 
Till the end uv yer dyin' days. 



THE SANTA FE TRAIL 

DEDICATED TO HON. R. M. WRIGHT, DODGE CITY, KANSAS 

OVER the hills and valleys afar 
The dust of the desert hangs very a cloud, 
Pinned as veil to an evening star, 
Floating away like a sinuous shroud. 

Dipping in folds o'er the winding trail, 

Drifting away through the ribbons of light, 

Floating in rifts like a tattered sail, 

Away and away, toward the Gate of the Night. 

Moving along in the Alkaline silt, 

Caravan freighters pass silently on, 
Dying with thirst on the waste of the weld, 

Praying for bread at the break of the dawn. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 95 

Worn with the urge and the tramp of the day, 
Foot sore and weary with plying the goad, 

Driver and driven lie down by the way 

In the valley of dreams, to lighten the load. 

Up from the canyon there stealthily crept 
Santana the monster with a myriad of braves, 

Surrounding the train while the worn freighters slept 
And slaughtered the sleepers for numberless graves. 

Awake and aweary with watching the flames 
The cattle man sat in his saddle alone, 

And dashed down the trail to herald the names 
Of the slain to the troop in the barracks of stone. 

Up with the morning's first herald of day 

Came dashing the soldierly guard of the plains, 

Armored and spurred, they galloped away 

To the scene of the carnage where solitude reigns. 

Naught did they find in the desolate dell, 
Nothing but corpses all mangled and torn, 

Nothing but ashes were left to tell 

Of the struggle of devils and men till morn. 

A wolf hound whined alone in the camp, 

And stood by his master all battered and dead, 

And fondled his brow, all bloody and damp, 
And told them a story that they readily read. 

Left to be prey for the scavenger pack, 

That roam in the canyon and soar in the air, 



96 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Tells of a struggle that never brings back 

The life of the driver, who fought with despair. 

Left to bleach on the waste up the Santa Fe trail 
From the Dodge to the Buttes and the Wagon Bed 
Springs, 

Are the bones of the heroes, who tell us a tale 
Of those who have fallen, who fought like kings. 

In the dust of the trail rushed the soldierly guard, 
Spurred on like demons in a cavalry charge, 

Toward a cloud on the trail far ahead was the word, 
For Santana, the devil Cheyenne, was at large. 

Oh ! the Santa Fe Trail, could its story be told, 
'Twould give us a view of vast expanse, 

Of the miner, who dreamed of gravels of gold, 
As he plodded with pack in a mythical trance. 

Would tell of the drives that stages have made 
With passengers, mail and Fargo Express, 

Tell of some bandit, night-hawk of the glade, 

Who made them surrender, without "if" or "guess." 

Tell of a million of bison whose tread 

Sounded like the roar of a muttering stormj, 

As they dashed down the trail where the leaders led 
At slightest betoken of stranger alarm. 

Oh ! thou Santa Fe Trail of years agone, 

Whose sinuous track wound over the plains, 

May forever thy story pass on and on 

As the highway of freighters and caravan trains. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 97 

We cherish thy memory, mark thee with stone 
To show where the greatest of thoroughfares ran 

From the mouth of the Kaw through the great Un- 
known 
To the city that nestles by the river Le Grande, 

In the midst of the mountains far out in the west, 
Where the sun-kissed peaks cast shadows along 

On the shimmering clouds of dust that rest 
O'er thy sinuous track — Oh, Ribbon of Song ! 



GRASSHOPPERS, YEAR 1874 

GRASSHOPPERS, did ye say? 
Bet yer boots, I knowed the thing, 
Seed a billion on the wing 
In the middle uv the day, 
Kinder cuttin' out the light 
So it seemed as tho the night 
Wuz cummin' on. 

Yes, the roosters went to roost, 
An' the chickens slunk away 
In the tumble weeds an' hay, 

Jist kerzackly what they yust 
To do, as little bids ; 
Jist they run'd away an' hid 

Without a needin' any boost, 
Only shadders. 



98 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Wal, them hoppers mowed a swath 
In ol' Kansas, left an' right, 
An' it was a stunnin' sight 

Seein' how they cut their cloth ; 
Nippin' leaf an' blade o' grass, 
Lettin' hardly nothin' pass, 

An' the catterpillar moth 
Went beggin'. 

Medders ! Mowed 'em like a scythe ; 

An' they never made a balk 

At a eatin' all the stalk ; 
Nubbins didn't make a tithe 

Fur their omnibusan maw, 

Fur they eat 'em cooked or raw, 
An' ol' natur seemed to writhe 
With their cuttin'. 

Tons uv fodder with the grass 
Went the way uv all the earth, 
Jist what hoppers thought 'em worth; 

As fur eatin' garden sass, 

They devoured it jist the same, 
An' no fence could make 'em tame, 

Septen when the birds — alas — 
Barbed 'em. 

Wal, that year o' 74, 

Most momenchus uv 'em all, 
There wuz nothin' in the fall, 

Not a petal er a spore, 
Not a tater, er a yam, 



RHYMES, OF THE YESTERYEAR 99 

Not a melon worth a clam; 

So we yanked our ol' tepee, 
An' left 'er. 

Left 'er thar, ye bet we did, 

When we left with "skin" an' "bones" 

An' the kids, an' Nancy Jones, 
An' in "Pike er bust" we rid, 

I'll jist bet a thousand miles, 

An' my very blood it biles, 
When I think what hoppers did 
In Kansas. 



PASSING OF THE WRANGLER 

IN MEMORY OF THE COLD WINTER OF 1886 

WRANGLE up yer broncs, Bill, 
Let us hit the trail, 
Cinch 'em up a knot er two 
'Fore there comes a gale. 

Fill the wagon full o' chuck, 

'Fore we cut adrift, 
Fur we'll have a time, Bill, 

With this winter shift. 

My bones they feel a blizzard 

A hatchin' in the west, 
An' I must load my gizzard 

With some pizen piker's best. 



100 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Sam, git yer chips together, 

An' stack 'em in a box, 
An' gather up the tether 

Ropes, shirts an' dirty socks. 

An' lash 'em to the cayouse, 
An' strap 'em, tight an' strong, 

Fur we're gwine to have to ride, Sam, 
Kase seems they's sumthin' wrong. 

Boys, see the clouds a shiftin', 
They's gwine to turn a trick, 

An' make us go a driftin' 
A 'fore we reach the crick. 

It's a hundred males ye know, boys, 
To reach the X. I. camp, 

An' we'll have to keep a rollin' 
Er we'll ketch a frosty cramp. 

So skin the mules a plenty 

With yer double trigger'd crack, 

An' keep the broncs a goin', 
Jist so ye know the track. 

So with a whoop an' holler, 
The rounders full o' pluck, 

An' tanked up to the collar, 

With their wagon load o' chuck. 

They left the Dodge behind 'em, 
An' started fur the south, 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 101 

With the gale a blowin' 
A peck o' dirt a mouth. 

They skace could see the other 
Feller lopin' through the clouds, 

Er hear nothin' but the thunder 
An' the flappin' o' their shrouds. 

Tumble weeds a rollin' 

With a forty minnit clip, 
An' the clouds a pilin' 

Up like a phantom ship. 

With a double triggered action 

The wind she turned er tail, 
An' kicked out all the suction 

Fur the southers gale. 

She started into rainin' 

An' follered with a sleet, 
An' kept her speed a gainin' 

A throwin' down her sheet, 

Till every thing wuz covered, 

A frozen glare o' ice, 
Yet still she closter hovered 

An' pinched us like a vise. 

That blizzard came a peltin' 

With 'er frozen shot, 
An' sich snow a driftin' 

I never have forgot. 



102 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

We couldn't see a nothin', 
Nur hear a rounder croak, 

But the gurgle o' the pizen 
A puttin' us to soak. 

We kept the broncs a movin' 
Frum bein' froze to death, 

While waitin' fur the morn in' 
To thaw us with his breath. 

But when the snowy mornin' 
Had come in with his smile, 

He'd left a ghastly warnin' 
Fur many an' many a mile. 

A thousand head o' cattle 

Caught driftin' with the storm 

Were frozen while a millin' 
A tryin' to keep warm. 

Poor Sammy, with the wagon, 
Wuz found a mile, alone ; 

Wuz stuck a drift, an' frozen, 
An' harder'n a stone. 

Ol' Bill, he froze his fingers, 
An' blistered up his face, 

A tryin' to pitch his ringers, 
An' a fightin fur the ace. 

I fell into a canyon 
With my cayouse an' my traps, 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 103 

An* shuffled fur the joker 
With the cinchen straps. 

I warmed myself a plenty, 

A keepin' up the fight, 
A skinnin' ol' McGinty 

Till a comin' o' the light. 

Poor Sam, he boozed a plenty, 

To stack 'im in a heap, 
An' the devil swiped his anty 

When he went to sleep. 

So, Bill an' me, together 

Stood in silence by the wag- 
On, not a knowin' whether 

To swig another jag. 

Er cut the cussed pizen 

That had foggled up our breath, 
An' kept our spirits risin' 

Without a fling o' death. 

So me an' Bill, we tackled 

The job without a drop, 
An' in the hill we hackled 

A grave, with icy top, 

An' shuffled Sammy in it, 

An' banked him in with snow, 
An' 'rected up a monomint 

To let the Nesters know 



104 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

We done our solem dooty 
An' planted him in style, 

With the whitest snow o' heaven 
Heaped on 'im in a pile. 

Poor Bill, he sniffed a little, 
When I lifted up my hat 

An' let some weepin' splatter 
On Sammy's frozen mat. 



Sam wa'nt no idle rustler; 

No one could ride the range 
Better'n he, nur brand 'em, 

Nur dip 'em fur the mange. 

His check book showed a balance 
Fur a wrangler o' the stuff, 

Fur a hilpin' o' his mither 
No one could spake enough. 

His heart wuz whar God put it; 

His blood wuz al'uz red; 
His mouth, he al'uz shet it 

When troubles wuz ahead. 

An' if the storm wuz ragin' 

He rid the line alone, 
An' never onct a stagin' 

Some other's stunt his own. 

Fur his larnin' he wuz known, 
Figured with the letter X, 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 105 

Never had to once be shown ; 
Wuz no mangy maverick : 

Set an' count a herd o' stars 
Driftin' frum the hand of God ; 

Tell us all about the flowers 
Playin' bo-peep in the sod. 

Hope the Jedge will let 'im through, 
When he rounds up at the gate ; 

But, ol' pal, I'm fearin' though, 
Sam'll be a little late. 

Peace be then, to Sammy's ashes, 

Till the round-up o' the race, 
When each wrangler's check book cashes 

What it's worth an' at its face. 



THE SPIRIT MYSTERY OF MEADE COUNTY 

1 DREAMED of a valley of beautiful bowers, 
Where the sun swings low 

With a golden glow, 
Where one can drink of the fragrance of flowers; 

Where the waters spring forth 

All over the earth, 
Where moments are lost in the vanishing hours 

Like daggers of light 

In the fog of the night ; 
Where the wingless spirits of headless Giaours 



106 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Dance over the plain, 

Like the lights of a train, 
And limn up the sky with spirited mist ; 

Like a breath of dew- 
On a panel of blue. 
So I silently sit in my dug-out and list 

While the sprites dance by 

In the glow of the sky, 
That swings like a shifting gnome at a tryst 

Over the valley of flowers 

For hours and for hours, 
Tangling the threads that never untwist ; 

Striving ever to know 

Whence the golden glow 
That comes with the gloom of the night unkissed. 



JIM THE FIDDLER 

IN A roadhouse by a medder, 
Half a dug-out, half a sod, 
Kinder lonely in its shadder, 
On a trail that thousands trod, 

Thirty miles beyond the Beaver, 
To the southwest in the hills, 

Where the streamlet, Fulton, 
Starts its seaward ripple trills, 

Stood an unpretentious castle 
By the great Tascosa trail, 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 107 

Noted for its cheer and wassel, 
Wranglers' haven, never fail. 

There they tripped the light fantastic 

With some comely wrangler lass ; 
Tried to make the moments plastic 

With the clinking of the glass. 

Oft a freighter bound for Texas, 
Or the Staked Plains to the south, 

Stopped to rest his lumber plexus 
Or to slake his thirsty mouth. 

Here it wuz that Jim the Fiddler 

Lived alone, and handed mail 
To some lonely bronco buster, 

From a wooden candy pail. 

And perhaps a flask o' whiskey 

From a bucket in the well, 
Though he knew that it was risky, 

Should the wrangler dare to tell. 

He wuz sawin' on his fiddle 

In the shadder o' the shack, 
Settin,' dreamin' o' Miranda 

By the hedge o' tamerack, 

When a shadder flit before him, 

Then another, and again, 
And he wondered what the mischief 

Wuz a comin' to his den. 



108 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

He wuz fiddlin' "Oaken Bucket," 

As the sun wuz goin' down, 
When some shadders strangely lengthened 

Like the actions uv a clown, 

For there slipped and stood behind him 

Flyin' Eagle, with his band, 
On a wild hoss expidition 

Or a straggler with a brand. 

Then it wuz that Jim the Fiddler 

Cut a catgut slap in two, 
When his bow across the middle 

Shot a high C out o' view. 

Then he dashed into the doorway 

Looking for his rusty gun, 
And he found his ammunition 

Wouldn't muster up a run. 

Then the chieftain, Flyin' Eagle, 

Motioned Jim to take a seat, 
With a grunt, an' took a notion 

That the fiddle would repeat. 

Jim wuz shakin' with the ager 
Runnin' down his spinal cord, 

An' wuz prayin' like the mischief 
Fur the comin' uv the Lord, 

In a furrin language ruther, 

Kinder tinged with sulpher fumes, 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 109 

When the Injuns did no other 
Than to doff their eagle plumes, 

Squat beside him at the doorway 

While he fiddled "Ol* Black Joe," 
Or he sawed him off another, 

Kinder doleful like an' slow. 

Then he took another tackle, 

Tore 'em off the "Devil's Dream," 
When each Injun with a chuckle 

Kinder took a scalpin' gleam. 

Then he bolstered up his courage, 

Took 'em down to Arkensaw 
Where each 'Sawyer rastles music 

Frum a fiddle er a straw. 

Then he gave the "Washer Woman," 

With a sentimental stroke, 
But the Injuns simply took it 

As the ravlin uv a joke. 

So they poked Jim with a chuckle, 

Motioned him to fiddle on, 
'Till his elbows and his knuckles 

Stopped a fiddlin' at the dawn. 

And they could not budge another, 

Neither would they if they could, 
For their could not and their should not 

Were entangled with their would. 



110 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Then in silence at the dawning, 
When they saw that Jim was done, 

In a hurry stole his whiskey, 
Tobacco, meat and rusty gun. 

Left poor Jim alone, afrighted, 
Bound with magic to a box, 

All exhausted and depleted, 
Like the ravelins uv sox. 

When the Eagle had departed 
With his wild marauding band, 

On his wild hoss expedition 
Up the Paladora sand, 

Jim, he broke his trance to splinters, 
Swore he'd leave the diggins then, 

Leave the mail, an' chuck, an' plunder 
In that dismal dugout den. 

So he roped a mule an' started 

With his fiddle in his hand, 
While his rags were strapped behind him, 

Touched the high points of the land. 

Thirty miles he rode ol' Buster 
Like a long-eared streak uv light, 

Heedless of the rags an' duster 
Lashed behind him out o' sight. 

Pounded Buster with his fiddle, 
Raised a fog of dust and dirt, 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 111 

Kinder busted up the gearin' 
Uv his yankee-doodle quirt. 

But it made no dif to Jimmy, 

He was scart an' took his leave, 
In a double triggered fashion 

Fur the road-house on the Beav. 

In the distance saw the wrangler 

Comin' with a Sheridan gait, 
With a dusty fog about him 

At a most terrific rate. 

Into Beaver rode the fiddler 

All afog an' out o' breath, 
To the road-house slowly staggered 

Just abouten scart to death. 

Well, that fiddle into splinters 

Had been pounded in the flight, 
And no string was left to tell us 

Of their symphony, the night 

That Ol' Flyin' Eagle heard 'em 

On the banks of Fulton creek, 
And the rattle give to Buster 

When he made that flyin' streak. 

So poor Jimmy with his fiddle, 

Pass across the silent bar, 
Closed the life that was a riddle 

With a dirge to Lochin-var. 



112 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 



PROFESSOR FELLOW'S HAILSTONE 

OH, WERE you ne'er a schoolboy, 
And did you never hear 
The story of the Fellow 
Who walked off on his ear? 

When meteor hailstones pounded 
On the Demy's ground, and bounded 
Like base balls, and e'en sounded 
On the window pane and floor 
Like the cannon's opening roar ; 

When they fired upon the Bank, 

On the rear and on the flank, 

He almost fainted, almost sank. 

How he tore with whoop and fluster, 

Like a one-hoss feather duster, 

When a bigger one, a buster, 

Came tearing through the window on a fly. 

How the window glass loud rattled 
When the elements thus battled, 
How the dusty whirlwind soared, 
How the torrents downward poured, 
How old Mars, he ripped and roared, 
And old Jupe, he even snored, 
And the ground looked rather bored 

When it stopped 

Where it dropped. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 113 

Bored, that will never tell, oh, 
Half the feeling of the Fellow, 
When the boys did fairly sell so 
With a patent, stuck up iceburg. 

Oh, the joke, it was a daisy, 

Beating bottles, airpumps crazy ; 

'Twas enough to make him hazy, 

And a deal a bit on-azy, 

When the hailstones came like bullets, 

Big as eggs of chicken pullets, 

Like young iceburgs on the floor, 

And they nigh most made him "swore ;" 

But he stood it like a hero 

With his blood nigh down to zero. 

But the camel's back was broken 
When Gibbony gave his token 
Of a hailstone 8 by 12. 
And the rize was set a soakin,' 
And the boys so wide awoken, 
At each other fun were pokin' 

When he bit. 

To whe, to whit, 

Tweedle dee, tweedle dum, 

Yum, yum, yum, 

Ra, ra, ra, 

Razle, razle, razle, 

Boom de aye. 

But the best was yet a comin/ 
When he set the earth a hummin' 



114 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

On a peg, wooden leg. 
And he tore around and stuttered 
For a string to measure the thing 

Before it melted. 
Strings and kerchiefs, sticks and rulers, 
Came at once from princely foolers, 
All hustled around and helped the elve 

To measure the stone just 8 by 12. 

Quick into an icy bucket 
With a flash he tuck and stuck it, 
And he cut through mud and water, 
Like a Hoosier turkey trotter, 
And he never stopped to potter, 
But he to the city shot her 
Like an arrow. 

How this little story ended, 
Ask the winds that sigh in sadness, 
Ask the flowers that bloom in gladness, 
Ask the tiny emerald grasses, 
Ask the cheerful, smiling lasses, 
Ask the jolly boy who passes 
Out yon doorway. 

Dedicated to J. W. Gibbony and Charles Ware by the 
Fellow who looks like me. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 115 

FANTASIES 

(a paraphrase) 

I SAT me in my rocker 
In the gloaming of the night, 
While the shadows of the firelight 
Danced as specters in the room;, 
On the floor and everywhere; 
And I listened to the knocker, 
And I wondered if some sprite 
Clad in ghostly raiment white, 
Was emerging from the gloom, 
Tapping on my chamber door, 
Treading silently the stair 
To my attic overhead ; 
So I hid me in my locker, 
Like a stanchion of a stocker, 
Waiting till the ghost had fled ; 

Only this and nothing more, 
Just the murky night wind roar, 
And the rattle of the shingle 

On the roof, 
And the fancied click and jingle 

Of the hoof, 
Of some ghostly mailed knight errant 
From the dread Plutonian shore. 
I will warrant 
Never more will he rattle 
Rusty armor at my door, 
O'er and o'er, nevermore. 
The Den of the Mists. 



116 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 



A HOT NUMBER 

DID you ever in your teens 
See a twister, feel a blister 
Of a souther with a smother 
Hotter than a pot o' beans ; 
Kinder choke you, like a yoke you 
Fixed upon the brindle cow; 
An' ye set moppin' sweat 
Trinklin' down yer furried brow, 
While ye took the ol' exam.? 
It's all in knowin' "what's the how ;" 
So wipe 'er off with a laugh, 
Fan awhile with a smile, 
An' let 'er blow to Hepsidam. 

Ye will git thar "sure as hen," 

Settin' thar a countin' ten, 

If ye keep a writin' stuff, 

Tryin' hard to make a bluff 

At a findin' out the known, 

By a namin' Presidents 

An' some residents of the torrid zone, 

Conjugatin,' parsin' "lie" 

In the grey web of yer brains. 

If it rains 

Ye will git thar by and by, 

If ye keep a spellin' t-r-y ; 

Keep a fannin' with a will ; 

Never fret while ye sweat, 

Keep a fannin' while a tannin' 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 117 

In this blister of a wind ; 
Keep a tryin', tho yer dyin' 
Fur a drink : 

Keep a climbin' up the hill, 
An' I'll bet a rusty sou, 
Tersy Ann an' sister Lou 
Will git thar jist as sure as you; 
Make a grade a ramblin' past 
With a license fur to teach, 
An' per cent, that is a peach 
Stickin' fast; yes, at last; 
Yes, at last. 
Adios. 



A PRAIRIE FIRE 

TO EVERETT OVERMAN 

ACROSS the hills one summer day, 
■ There drove two boys together, 
A buildin' castles out of hay, 
Regardless of the weather. 

While aimin' at a plover snipe, 
To check 'im from the docket, 

One chanced to see the other's pipe 
A stickin' from his pocket. 

He dropped his gun, and said to Hen., 

Let's hit 'er once together 
For luck a little, and we'll then 

Discuss the wind and weather. 



118 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Not heedin' where the matches flew 
Upon the brownin' heather, 

They lit the grass, and there were two 
Dumbfounded fools together. 

At first they thot it but a joke 
To whip the burnin' grasses, 

A simple ravlin' of a poke, 
A line from "Pippa Passes." 

One rushed the ponies for a can 
An' pumped 'er full of water, 

While all the while the blazes ran 
A leapin' higher, hotter. 

While one of them he fought and fussed 

To stop the fiery river, 
The other two-fer in'ard cussed 

While pumpin' out 'is liver. 

Like Jehu with Jerusalem broncs 

Without a spellin' potter, 
Regardless of the ruts and honks 

Unto the fire 'e shot 'er. 

With rags and buckets, battered pans, 
They fought the leapin' blazes, 

The more they used the sprinklin' cans 
The hotter grew the daisies. 

Like burnin' gasses of a well 
That smoky furnace drove 'em 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 119 

A down the canyon pell 'a mell, 
With pitchy clouds above 'em. 

The runnin' wall of flames an' smoke 

Swept on, a fiery torrent, 
The lads were up against the joke 

The sheriff with 'is warrant. 

The cowboy saw the risin' cloud 

Of smoke, and hit the saddle; 
From every quarter came a crowd 

That made the jays skedaddle. 

The tender-feet were fightin' hard 

When came the cussin' buster ; 
They backed the fire, and plowed a guard, 

And fought till they had wust 'er. 

They told the blokes in garnished words 

They were too awful risky; 
And they could only clear the guards 

By coughin' up the whiskey. 

The kids were short in tangle-foot, 
So thanked 'em for their trouble ; 

An' kivered with a cake of soot 
They left the burnin' stubble. 

They never even left their cards, 

But hit their water-wagon 
Without a passin' any words, 

An' drove like they were jaggin'. 



120 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Up hill and down they hit the trail, 
An' never stopped to potter, 

To take a smoke, or spin a tale, 
Or take a drink of water, 

Until they crossed the Kansas line, 
An' struck the hills of freedom, 

An' left Commanche in the shine, 
With Nesters, who had treed 'em. 

So never let the motto pass, 
"When smoking Cubeb berries, 

Don't throw your ashes in the grass, 
Before you count your cherries." 



PART III 



MEDITATIVE ODES 



MEDITATIVE ODES 



THOUGHT 



THOUGHT is but the budding flower, 
From the minds celestial bower, 
With as brilliant changing hue 
As the diamond drops of dew. 

Buds to bloom from day to day, 
On each weary pilgrim's way ; 
Opes to lighten up the gloom, 
Bursts to feed some other bloom. 



Thoughts are germinating seeds 
That grow and ripen into deeds ; 
They give to man the golden grain, 
The fruit of pleasure and of pain. 



124 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 



IN COMMEMORATION 

TO MY BELOVED WIFE UPON HER GRADUATION FROM 

FRIENDS UNIVERSITY, WICHITA, KANSAS, 

JUNE 6, 1901 

IN THE shadowy shade of the maples, 
In the moonlight's mellowy gleams, 
I wooed, and won, and wed her, 
The angel of youthful dreams. 

We wooed while the sprites of moonlight 

Danced fairy-like over her head, 
And rested upon the bosom 

Of him, whom she wooed and wed. 

The rustling leaves of the maples 
Showered shadows across our feet; 

We know not why they came and went 
Like a phantom fawn, so fleet. 

The silvery shafts of the starlight, 
From the little bo-peeps in the sky, 

Came down and sealed our plighting, 
For weal and woe, for aye. 

Two decades and more have vanished 

Down the mystical isle of Time ; 
Years fraught with joy and with sorrow 

In the hush of a requiem chime. 

We've labored and studied together; 
We have prayed for strength divine 











. . . . '■■::■ 










"others we've helped, as he bade us" 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 125 

To perform the tasks assigned us, 
In the ways not mine, but Thine. 

How oft from an unknown quarter 

The threatening storms have come ; 
They've changed our course, we know not why ; 

But have driven us nearer Home. 

Thou hast strewn my path with sunshine 

When the flecks of shadow pass, 
And bade me hope for the morrow, 

When Time shall turn his glass ; 

Bade me banish the gloom and sadness, 

Look up with a cheerful eye 
To the peaks of Hope and Gladness 

That kiss a sunlit sky. 

Out from a land of sorrow, 

Into an azure clime ; 
On toward the bright Tomorrow, 

With a courage that is sublime. 

Out from the weeping willows 

And the marshy, sedgy pool ; 
Up on the crested billows, 

Where storm-tossed Tritons rule. 

Together we've helped each other, 

In home, and college, and school ; 
Others we've helped, as He bade us, 

In the light of the Golden Rule. 



126 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

He has given us many a fledgling 
To shelter, and clothe, and feed, 

And fit for the use of the Master, 
As sowers of precious seed. 

He has given us daughter Inez, 

Another's pledge of life, 
To train for a useful mission 

In the valley of joy and strife. 

Today we stand on the summit, 
With many a milestone past, 

But the one erected today, Love, 
Will linger in sight till the last. 

Well earned are thy honors, my Darling, 
The jewels of Treasure Trove,' 

To be used in spreading His Kingdom, 
The key to whose portal is Love. 



AS YE WOULD 

FROM the darkness of the night, 
So grim, 
Came a stranger to our door, 
Sick and sore, 
In the rags of sin ; 
Reaching feebly for the light, 
Pleading for an entrance in ; 
He asked but a crust, 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 127 

Yet we gave him more ; 
For the Master had come; 
Had garnished a room; 
And cleansed it of dust 
For Him. 



TO WALLACE 

SOMEWHERE in the golden west 
Where rise the sunkissed mountain peaks 
Above the shadowy canyon bed, 
There lies a lonely form at rest, 
Awaiting till the trumpet speaks, 
'Awake! Arise! ye sleeping dead.' 

Above his form the ivy vines 

And tangled locks of grass grow green, 
And tiny, little daisies bloom, 
Painted with a blush divine, 
By the hand of God, I ween, 
For that unforgotten tomb. 

For him the murmuring mountain stream, 
Atuned to voices of the night, 
Chants a wierd and wistful dirge, 
With the rhythm of a dream, 
Just as the angel harps of light 
In one majestic chorus merge. 

In sheen of even's sunset glow 
We sit beside the mountain brook 



128 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

And dream of Wallace once again; 
His stalwart form and face aglow 
With love of life for bream and book 
And deeds aborn of Christ to men. 

How long he struggled with the hope 

That health would kiss him with the morn, 
That Life's fair day would lengthen weal, 
But setting suns left him to grope, 
A mystic maze, yet not forlorn, 

Till came the breaking of the wheel. 

Like Spartan in the throes of death, 
He sought to grip his deathly foe 
And ward his lances thick and fast; 
He grappled till his failing breath 

Warmed not the soothing hand, and lo 
The Angel claimed a king at last. 

Beneath the weeping, moonlit trees 
In Alamagordo's verdant vale, 

She gave her loved one back to earth. 
Her cup of sorrows to the lees 

Was drained ; yet Inez drank that sacred grail 
And seeks to live what life is worth. 

With stately grace she seeks to blend 
The beauty of a thought divine 
Into the warp of others' lives ; 
Sweet Ranald, with his father's trend 
In every lineament and line, 

For him she ever prays and strives. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 129 

WOOED AND WED 

FOR GLEN AND EVA 

IN A woodland by a river 
Where the rippling waters laugh 
Like a zither with a quiver, 
Sweeter than a song by half 

Than is sung by human voices 

Or the carroled notes of birds, 
While a choir unseen rejoices, 

Sweeter than a chant of words. 

Here where flecks of sun and shadow 

Play bo-peep and pass away, 
Dancing sprites across the meadow, 

Daisies, passing with the day ; 

Here beneath the elm and willow 
Close beside the laughing run, 
Where the cowslips in a pillow 
Drink the nectar of the sun 

Merge two paths and run together 
Winding through the verdant glade, 

Through the fragrant bloom blown heather 
By the hands of fairies made. 

Here two lovers met and wandered 

'Neath the shadow of the pines ; 
Wooed each other as they pondered 
In the vale of jassamines. 



130 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Strength and beauty met in contest 

On the acre of the heart, 
Both were captured in the struggle, 

Both were wounded with a dart. 

Wooed and wedded, maid and master, 
Glen and Eva, side by side, 

May your joys forever faster 

Ripple 'gainst your barque aglide. 

As you leave the quiet haven 
For your wider sea of life, 

May your sails be set for Heaven, 
May no adverse winds of strife, 

Blow across your track a-seaward, 
May no billows wreck your barque, 

May some gentle gale a-leaward 
Calm your ocean through the dark. 

Waft your vessel gently over 
Toward the sun-rise of the soul, 

Where the thoughts of loved and lover 
Are engraven on the scroll 

Of an Angel with a message 
Written with a plume of light 

From some Seraphim of passage 
Lost in struggle with the Night. 

May your oil of joy and gladness 
Flow across life's golden brim 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 131 

To the world a-shroud in sadness, 
Be a spikenard unto Him. 

Fragrant as the Rose of Sharon 

Pressed against His weary feet, 
Be as shafts of Aldebaron 

Lighting up the stony street 

Where the throng of Life's most weary, 

With their moil from day to day, 
And the pall hangs low and dreary 

O'er the blood-stained stony way. 



MEDITATION 

IN THE sunkissed land of the yester yore, 
I love to live and dream anew 
Of the castles of sand along the shore — 

Of the ropes of shells with rainbow hue, 
And mystical sounds like the ocean roar — 
Or a sylphian song from the vault of blue. 

I love to build my castles of sand 

Along the shore of the shimmering Dee, 

W^ith their moats and turrets and girdle bands 
Of beautiful shells, so dear to me, 

Then time the moments that each one stands 
The lash of the waters going out to sea. 

I build my castles and see them fall 
And melt away with the undertow, 



132 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

No vestige is left of a broken wall 
To guard my treasures of long ago, 

For they were borne away in a nymphian pall 
To a crypt of sand I never can know. 

I love to look at the moonlit wave, 
With its snowy crest of glittering spray 

And list to the breakers that laugh and lave 
The rock-bound coast of the far away, 

As they leap and lash across the grave 
Of the treasured shells of the yesterday. 

But more than all do I love to stand 
In the quarry of Life, awake, alone, 

And follow the touch of a hidden hand 
And chisel an angel out of the stone, 

And leave the chips to crumble to sand 

To mingle with drift of the great unknown. 

I strive to chisel a Titan's face 

Up in the hills of the quarry of Life, 

Out of the marble of Spirit grace — 
But I find the flaws of stress so rife 

That my chisel, it breaks when trying to trace 
A line of beauty o'er a flint of strife. 

But yet the Omnipotent One leads on — 
Maker of chisel and maker of mould, 

Painter who mingles the tints of the dawn; 
Artist who touches with crimson and gold, 

Breathes ; and my fanciful angels are gone — 
For He has given me better to ever unfold. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 133 



COURTING ON THE STILE 

JUST twenty years ago tonight, 
My own dear one with me, 
In the shadow that the moonlight 

Cast by the maple tree, 
Sat courting on the stile, 

And drinking from the stream of Love's 
Perpetual spring, whose radiant glow 

From the heavenly light above, 
Is borne on the crystal flow 

To our soul's deep well oftwhile. 

How pleasant were those many hours 

In the moonlight's mellow glow, 
While all around the maple bowers 

Cast their shadows to and fro 
Upon the stile and gravelly walk ; 

Each a picture seemed of Life 
Fast chasing each in turn ; 

Fantastic pictures in a strife 
From the cradle to the urn — 

Shadows that dumbly talk. 

Times oft while courting on the stile 

Did Love's eternal queen 
Upon our love-knit souls oft smile 

Approval, though unseen, 
And quaff to each a health 

From out her sparkling bowl, 
Which we with gods dared drink 



134 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

By the fountain of the soul, 
Bound by a golden link 
To a life of wedded wealth. 

But aye ! those twenty years have gone, 

Flown like a magical spell, 
And now as the noon and the dawn 

Of our lives blend closely, how well 
Can we look o'er the scene that has past; 

In the arbor with children meet where 
The stile and the maple once stood, 

And to God with singing and prayer 
Adore Him, the Author of Good, 

Who with love hath our lives overcast. 



IN MEMORIAM 

ON THE DEATH OF OUR FRIEND AND FORMER PUPIL, PROFESSOR 

LAURA A. KIRBY-FAIRCHILD, FRIENDS UNIVERSITY, 

WICHITA, KANSAS. 

DEDICATED TO OUR DEAR FRIEND, HER FATHER, JOHN G. KIRBY. 



THE Book is sealed. We know not why 
The fair young flower was snatched away; 
'Twill be revealed. The Bye and Bye 

Will ope the golden gates of Day, 
And by the angel fingers shown 

We'll read the chapters of the Known. 

We grope for Truth. We know not where 
Life's golden cord will snap in twain 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 135 

Perhaps in youth, or aged with care, 
God calls. Our tears were shed in vain ; 

Our prayers that she remain on earth 
Failed in God's balances of Worth. 

A well lived life. Not long but well 
Filled to the brim with blessed deeds ; 

Crowned mid the strife. We cannot tell 
Where sowed she springtimes fertile seeds 

On many a heart with voice and pen, 

But we shall know in the glorious Then. 

Fair Laura's birth was God appointed, blest 
To the world, to the mother gone before 

From scenes of earth, to thee who down the west 
Must wend thy way. Dear Friend adore 

The Giver of this precious Gift to you, 
Who doth all things well. Adieu. 



LULLABY 



ROCKABY, golden hair, angel of light, 
Dream of the cherubs far up in the skies, 
Sleep in mamma's arms, cuddle up tight, 
Close, little darling, thy innocent eyes. 

Rockaby, lullaby, gift from above, 

Go to sleep, little peep, free from all care, 

Purity, innocence, heavenly love, 
Crown thy pearly brow, golden hair. 



136 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Lullaby, rockaby, go to thy rest, 

Close in mamma's arms quietly sleep, 

Dear little golden beam, down from the blest, 
May shining angels thy guardian keep. 

chorus : 

Rockaby, little dear, 

Angels hover near, 
Sleep till the morning clear 

Opens thy eyes. 



THE NATIVITY 

HARK ! The bells ; sheep herders' bells, 
Tinkling o'er the moon-lit downs, 
And o'er Judea's rugged cliffs 
The herder's horn announces morn. 
From stormy lea, from lake to sea, 
And from the fold they wandered forth afield. 
List ! An heavenly chorus comes, 
Clothed in gossamer gowns of light, 
Chanting symphonies that thrill 
The gazing shepherds of the hills 
And drowsy fishermen in skiffs, 
That cause them half asleep to stare 
High starward at a golden stair, 
That drops its landing at their feet, 
And bids thee wake, arise and greet 
Angelic hosts that float adown 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 137 

With folded wings and harps atune 
To some seraphic rhythmic rune, 
"Glory to God in the highest; 
Peace on earth ; good will to men," 
Above the rock-hewn, sleepy town 
Of Bethlehem. 

Behold the star from space afar 

Approach to deck the diadem 

Of night; rare jewel from Pegasus' car, 

Triumphant, portent wanderer 

Flung forth to mark the mystic shrine 

Where came to earth the Christ Divine. 

The watchmen stagger at the gates 

Affrighted that they are ajar; 

The snarling scavengers astreet 

Renew their melancholy bay 

To the new wrought harbingers of day. 

The drowsy dromedaries moan 

Beneath their loads of wood and salt 

Or weavements from the far Cathay. 

The lowing herd and bleating sheep 

Arise in wonderment from sleep. 

The milk white chargers from the wild, 

To man unknown, they halt and neigh 

A welcome to the star-lit way 

That leadeth to the Christmas Child. 

The dawn began to break 

An heavenly halo over all 

On sea and land 

That Christmas morn. 

All nature seemed to wake 



138 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

From some seraphic thrall 
When Christ was born. 

The wise men from the East, 

Who knew the portents of the stars 

Beheld the one that shown 

To them so brightly in the sky; 

And by the fleetest camel, steed or chariot cars, 

God led by routes unknown, 

They very seemed to fly 

In order to adore the Babe of Bethlehem. 

Ring forth, ye chiming Christmas bells ; 

Peal forth your notes from brazen throats, 

And let your music fill the air ; 

Send forth glad tidings everywhere, 

Rhyming, chiming; welling, telling; thrilling, filling 

The world with gladness and good cheer. 



FLOWERS FROM JERUSALEM 

The following lines were inspired on seeing some flowers 
fresh from that sacred city, sent to a friend 
by a missionary. 

AH ! GEMS of beauty from the east, 
L Fresh plucked from hill and plain, 
Ye trophies from Mount Olive's crest 
Or Garden Gethsemane, 
To you I sing a song 
And tune the poet's lyre 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 139 

As minstrel of the muse; 

And by the sacred fire 

I view adown, along 

The paths where fell the dews 

At early morn's bright glow 

Upon your bursting leaves, 

While gentle zephyrs blow 

Your fragrance o'er the lea, 

And you, with tangled locks below, 

Of grass thus gently weave 

A coronal for me. 

Methinks the Galilean hills 

I wander o'er and o'er, 

While music from the hills 

In measured cadence pours 

Forth upon mine ear within, 

While mingled with the strain 

A sweeter sound comes on: 

"The lilies of the plain 

Toil not nor do they spin, 

While Solomon alone 

In radiant robes of state 

Is not arrayed as these." 

And sweet this music wells 

Within, while thus I wait 

Beside the Muses' sacred shrine, 

Beneath the branching palm and date 

On Zion's crest, while chiming bells 

Peal forth the hour of prayer divine. 

Ye flowerets from the crag and dell 
That grew beside the tomb 



140 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

From out the rifted rock, that fell 

And closed the darkened room, 

Where laid the Son of God 

A sacrifice for all ; 

Ye flowers that wept at morn 

Beside the Garden wall, 

And kissed the virgin sod 

With tears, which Christ forlorn 

Shed, mingled with His blood, 

While agonizing prayer 

Went forth a mighty flood 

Upon the morning air: 

Had that thorny crown of wood 

That gored His golden hair 

Been decked with gems like you, 

'Twould eased the pain of death, 

And e'en your fragrant dew 

Would've fed His fleeting breath, 

While o'er the tide His suffering soul 

Would've passed in your zephyr's cloud, 

And made the air of the Golden Goal 

Sweeter from the fragrant shroud. 



THE CRUCIFIXION 

THE cock's shrill clarion call 
Proclaimed the watch of dawn, 
As from the ivied wall 

Upon the prelate's lawn 
He thrice doth warn the band, 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 141 

That stand afar around 
And see their Savior's hand 
With Jewish shackles bound. 

Aye ! Thrice the warning bird 

Doth herald Time's advance 
Adown the stream, unheard 

With outspread wings perchance 
Ere long to shroud the world 

In darkness and in gloom, 
And rend the veil, unfurled, 

And lay Him in the tomb. 

Thrice Judas read his doom 

Betraying Christ, the Lord, 
While in the council room 

He stood, among the horde 
Of Pharisees and Scribes, 

And cursed his lucre lust 
In taking of the bribes 

As traitor to his trust. 

Thrice Peter, like a thief, 

Before the wanton fire 
Of Jewish unbelief, 

Bespoke himself a liar ; 
Denying by his word 

He never knew this Man, 
And loud and long were heard 

His curses by the clan. 

Betrayed, denied with scorns 
By e'en His own elect ; 



142 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Condemned and crowned with thorns, 
They thus the Christ reject; 

And on the rugged tree 

He breathes His parting breath, 

That might the world go free 
From bondage, sin and death. 

Sad was that dying hour 

When all the world was still, 
And gloom dispelled the power 

That monarchs swayed at will, 
When tombs gave forth their dead 

And rock-ribbed hills were cleft 
In twain, while overhead 

The orbs of light were reft. 

Three days the shackles bound 

His body in the grave, 
But when the morn came 'round, 

The powers of Death then gave 
E'en up their bonds that held 

The Son and Sent of God. 
He, swaddling clothes repelled, 

Rolled back the stone and trod 

Once more the verdant sod. 

He walked upon the sea, 

He soothed the waves to rest, 

He taught through Galilee, 
And oft His chosen blest ; 

But aye, when forty days 

Had passed, He bade them rise 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 143 

And spread abroad His praise; 

So saying, toward the skies, 
Upon the golden stair 

Of light, He left the earth, 
His tender orb of care, 

His gem of lasting worth. 



THE SONG OF TOIL 

THE door of the world stood gently ajar; 
I stood within it, and looking afar 
Out on the plain of human events, 
With its widening border of deeds and intents, 
With its streams of thought that run to the sea ; 
Streams of refreshment to angels and me, 
That ripple along o'er gravels of gold 
To the ocean of God, boundless, untold ; 
With its daisies of innocence, lilies of love, 
Rosebuds of promise from gardens above, 
Angels so free from turmoil and strife, — 
All sing to me sweetly the carol of Life. 

I looked, and I saw in the image of man, 
With his hand and his brow all callous and tan, 
Coming hastily toward me over the plain, 
With a gait that would give unto Idleness pain ; 
Came with his sickle and his scythe on his arm, 
Like a reaper at eve, from the work of the farm, 
And over the meadowlands gleefully rung 
These fragments of song that he cheerfully sung: 



144 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

"Thought is but the stepping-stone 
To the spirit's secret throne, 
To the holy place of prayer 
In the chambers of the soul. 
Sanctified unto thy care 
Is this monument of Thought, 
Ne'er a gift, yet never bought, 
Guiding to life's highest goal. 

"Acts are diadems of thought, 
Which thy master, Toil, hath wrought 
From the treasures of the mind, 
From the spirit of the man: 
Search thou mayst, yet never find 
That good actions are the growth 
Of pure idleness and sloth, 
And bless the world because they can." 

"Thought sits busily spinning the threads of our acts, 
At the door of the world in the sunlight of time ; 
Sits making the woof for the fabric of facts 
For the historic garment of every clime." 

"Labor at his forge plies on 
His vocation, while the dawn 
Of progress heralds wide the day; 
Beats well Life's brazen shield, 
And fits it to each arm to wield 
It bravely on the way." 

"While you breathe a breath, 
Should you as a man 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 145 

Live because you can? 
Act because you must, 
Just to keep the rust 
Of idleness away? 
Tiresome is the play 
If it feign no woes, 
And no pleasure grows 
From a living death." 

'Strength comes from love of strife 

With the rougher things of this lower clime; 
Life comes from love of life, 

And the hope it brings of that blissful time 
In the sweet beyond ; in the bye and bye." 

"If you find your place 
In life, take it; 
Accept it with a grace 
And you make it 
Worthy of accepting." 

"Destiny ever works on his loom, 
Weaving the seamless garb of Doom, 
Throwing his shuttle strong and straight, 
Bearing the endless woof of Fate 
Over the countless warp of lives." 

"Mind is the universe of man, 

His conscious world within; 
He gives it impulse, purpose, plan, 

To take its course and spin 
'Round some greater orb of light, 



146 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Or back into the void and gloom, 
Back into the trackless night 
Of ignorance to meet its doom." 

"If you cannot be a mountain 
Be a grain of sand 

In the universe of mind; 
If you cannot be a fountain 
Flowing o'er the land, 
Be a drop in your kind." 

"Our greatest efforts are as dust 
On the winds of Can and Must, 
Blown across Life's magic isle 
Toward the peaks of Afterwhile. 

"Toward the clime among the stars, 
Does this cloud float gently on, 
Through the golden rays and bars 
Lighting up Hereafter's dawn." 

"Sweet is the cup, though bitter with woes, 
And sweet is the morsel that Labor bestows, 
On the student who thinks, on the farmer who toils, 
On the soldier in battle who never recoils." 

"Bind up thy golden sheaf 
Of character today, 
Lest tomorrow be a thief, 
And steal it all away. 

"Sow well its golden grains 

Which are thy thoughts and deeds, 



RHYMES. OF THE YESTERYEAR 147 

That thou may'st gather gains 
Of a hundred fold of seeds." 

Drink well from the fountain of life, 
Lest ye thirst on the wearisome way ; 

Gird well with your armor for strife, 
And fight till the close of the day. 

Today has your toil but begun, 

Though a stone by the way you have passed ; 
Many times will a half-hidden sun 

Make your efforts to be overcast. 

Success will crown him who strives 
For the goal at the end of the track ; 

'Tis he that never arrives, 

Who ever and ever looks back. 

The way may be rough and steep, 
And your loads seem heavy to bear; 

But only the faithful can reap 

The crown that they're hoping to wear. 

Today does a critical world 

Look kindly and smile upon you, 
And bid you keep banners unfurled, 

Or beat life's battle tattoo. 

Be true and ever be just 

To yourselves on the way of life, 
And never another dare trust 

To labor for you in the strife. 



148 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

I bid you, kind students, adieu ; 

And ever shall wish for you well, 
And hope this bond to renew 

In the College of God. Farewell. 



WATCHING AND WAITING 

TO MOTHER ARCADIA 

ALIGHT burned low in the casement, 
With the glow of another clime, 
A gleam of a heavenly radiance 
From beyond the rift of Time. 

A worshiper sat beside it, 
And watched it feebly flame 

In its casement of whitened ashes, 

While the chimes of the vespers came 

Sweetly floating inward, 

On the balmy evening air 
At sundown, while she waited 

Awake, at the shrine of care. 

No vigil hour was grevious, 

No duty left undone 
To see that the light was burning 

Till the rising of the sun, 

When perchance the God of Heaven 
Shall remove the light away, 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 149 

And place it in a casement 
Eternal as the day, 

And the ash of the earthly mantle 

Shall have crumbled into dust 
At the breathing of the Angel, 

When he said, "Arise thou must 

Walk alone in silence 

In the gloaming of the night," 
While in memory the ashes 

Seem to glow a golden light, 

For her footstep as she onward 

Presses toward the heavenly shore, 

Where for ashes will be spirit, 
Radiant there for ever more. 



ODE TO FATHER 

AT MORN, a ship stately and strong, 
« Sailed out from the mist and fog of the sea 
Of Doubt and of Death, 
And maelstroms unfathonable ; 
With its storm laden breakers, 
And its phantom barques of the Night 
Afloat, crewless and rudderless, 
With their wierd wail of departed, 
Damned to their hulls sepulchral 



150 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Crying for releasement. 
While here and there and far beyond 
The chimes of danger signals ringing, 
Mark the path of the Silent Ships. 

Led on by a loadstar over the leaward, 

He sails on toward a Spirit bourne, 

Whose gates of pearl swing inward noiselessly 

At the slightest breathing of penitential prayer, 

Whose light is the effulgence of Divinity, Himself. 

When he has crossed the last bar 

And entered the haven of rest, 

Where the waters are still 

And the Spirit-lit spires 

Of Heaven are seen, reflected 

Aglow with a sheen in the waters of Life, 

That flow down from the Eternal Hills 

Of God to the boundless Sea of Existence. 

When the last bugle call 

From the portal watch sounds a welcome, 

He drops his anchor in the roadstead; 

And with muffled stroke atune 

To the lyres of some seraphic strain, 

The silent oarsmen waft him 

O'er the last lap of the journey, 

To that Port of Entry, forever closed 

To all who know not the Song of the Redeemed. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 151 



THE WOOF OF CIRCUMSTANCE 

MEN, like trees, are born amidst the briars of 
circumstance ; 
They've come to test the strength of evil winds that 

chance 
To blow across Life's ever broadening plain ; 
And neither are these tests of character in vain 
That strive to grow around us as a tanglewood of 

briars, 
That blow among the branches of our passions and 

desires. 
The thrifty weeping willow will never heed the thorn, 
But will steal away its sunshine with a lofty look of 

scorn ; 
And the maple will but toughen, if subjected to the 

blast, 
And become as tall and stately as the ocean vessel's 

mast: 
So the strong man grows unmindful of the thicket 

covered ground; 
For his foliage of character, he is noted far around : 
Yet many trees there are that bear unshapely crowns, 
One-sided and half-brimless like the cockney hats of 

clowns ; 
And so some people have this same caprice in thought, 
So one-sided an equation that they cipher down to 

naught. 

Some forest trees have gnarled and scarred, knotty 
and twisted forms, 



152 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Which are the evil markings of a hundred adverse 
storms ; 

So man's defective character is bruised by circum- 
stance, 

And the weakness of his nature is not the work of 
chance. 

Trees live and die, and by their dying bless another 

Growth of trees, that feed upon each fallen brother: 

Men are born to live and aid the present by their 
living, 

And feed the future generations by good works, thus 
giving. 

Trees drink the poison of the atmosphere, and in its 

place 
Feed the world with oxygen that gives thy being grace. 
God bless the forest temples, where dwells in solitude 
Thy Divinity in Nature, o'er which the Angels brood. 



LIFE'S STAGE 

LIFE is a shifting stage, 
■* On it we play 
Our parts, in jest and rage, 

In one short day. 
The twilight comes. The inky pall 

Of Night enshrouds the scene; 
Death claims the actor; then all 

Is o'er. — 
Exit to the bourne unseen. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 153 



TO THE DEAD PAST 

OH, MONSTER of the wierd Jurassic age, 
Whose pondrous tread mid murk and mire 
And drift of upheaved ocean beds, 
Crushing sigillarids and rasping calamite, 
Causing peterodactyls with vertebrated tails 
To plume their bat-like wings, 
And leave their carrion reptile rot 
Half eaten in the marly ooze 
With matted ferns and giant rushes ; 
And glutted with their wierd repast, 
To soar away with fiendish shriek 
To distant crags of Eozoic rock. 
The sleeping Saurian with scaly armor 
Glistening in the lurid heat, 
Lay half submerged beneath the slime ; 
Awoke and drew his armored length along 
Through quaggy mire a hundred fathoms on 
To floating isles of tangled drift 
Awaiting engulfment by the sea. 
His eyes like disks of fire shown forth, 
And from his caldron mouth 
A flame of phosphorescent spray shot forth. 
He drew his plated length along 
Across the prone Stigmarian trunks 
That drifted in the boiling sea 
That raged like muffled thunder in his wake. 
Serpents with emerald eyes like stars of night 
Awoke, and stretching high their heads 
Above the tangled drift sent forth a hiss 



154 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Like geysers bursting from the sea. 

While o'er the vast Sargossian sea 

A writhing, wriggling mass shot forth 

Their forked tongues like fiery flames. 

Coral, radiant with the blush of light, 

Filtering through the ambient mists, 

Closed their pollyp mouths, transfixed 

In one brief moment into stone. 

The crinoid lilies of the deep 

Bent low their heads beneath the swirling sea, 

And stretched their lengths along 

The slimy beds of chalky ooze. 

The crawling trilobe sought to hide itself 

Beneath a silty bed of diatonis 

From warring Ganoids on their track, 

Like hideous ooze ploughs of the sea 

Swimming amidst the coral forests of the deep. 

Send forth thy trumpetings, send forth 

Thy thunderings, Oh, Monster of the past ! 

Take thy fill of Lepedodendron leaves 

Or tender siggilarid shoots and die ; 

Stir up the denizens of that primeval marsh 

By thy wierd mutterings, old Tusker, 

With hide impenetrable to the dart 

Of cavemen of the paleolithic age. 

Lash back the waves to phosphorescent flame, 

And let it light the hydra dragons of the deep 

To their last slime bed abode ; 

Then lie down amid Creation's trumpetings 

Upon thy frothy ooze marsh couch, 

And let thy bones become entombed 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 155 



Within the stone clypt pages of the past; 
So let the spirit of thy majesty depart, 
Old mammoth Tusker of the Long Ago. 



SEQUENCE OF WAR 

CARNAGE 

"PICTURES, where the Blood-Red Dragon 

■"• Of Carnage drew in his fiery trail, 

The never ending skein of Sorrow and Remorse 

Dyed Damnation's hue 

In the drainage vats of Hell. 

PESTILENCE 

Where charged the Riderless Host 

Of milk white winged steeds 

From the Augean stables of the Styx, 

From whose extended nostrils 

The fiery atmosphere of Death leaps forth 

To enshroud the sin cursed world in gloom. 

MISERY 

Whose fanged talons, 

Like the vulture's serried claws, 

Tear the sin dyed sinews of Human Life 

From their bony charnal house, 

To feed the vampires of the Damned, 

Ever vanishing and returning to their fetted feast. 



156 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

SORROW 

Whose tear dimmed eyes 

Sought to see beyond the misty cloud 

Toward the ever retiring sun-kist peaks of Hope ; 

And as she walked abroad, 

Clothed in the sombre veil of Night. 

REMORSE 

Marshaled his minions in her track, 
And sowed the scalding tears of Death 
Upon the remnant of the living. 

DISASTER 

In the track of Unknown Sequence, 

Drawn by the unrequited forces of the Past, 

Rushes the train of Untimed Destiny, 

Laden with the cargo Damning Probabilities 

Toward the Cataclysmatic End of Human Effort. 



MY NEIGHBOR AND I 

MY NEIGHBOR and I, at the close of the day, 
When the sky was aflame with a golden glow 
Of the sun, sinking slowly down to rest, 
Walked side by side in the glorious gloaming, 
Plucking primroses and cowslips 
And sweet scented gale from valley and vale, 
From shadowy dale, where the pines 
With their odorous myrrh fill the air 
With their nectar divine for the gods and goddesses. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 157 

The rippling rivulet ran rapidly 

Down, with a swish, to the river beyond ; 

In the twilight gloam of the eventide, 

We could hear, through the murmuring pines, 

The song of the swish and swirl of the stream, 

As it, dashing and splashing, ran down, 

On its wild, booming whirl to the sea. 

The gossamer film of the darkness 

Settled steadily down from the sky, as a veil, 

And Night, in her chariot, rode riotously 

Out of her cavern of gloom from under the world, 

And lashed her Pegasian steeds into foam, 

Like the surf of the raging sea; 

And drove with fiery star dust trails of light 

For reins, and star-decked chariot wheels 

From the wonderful workshop 

Of the wandering Pleides. 

As Arcturus came forth 

From his Stygian cave, 

And Orion rode up to his place 

In the Host of the sky ; 

As the whip of dread Darkness 

Drove the last wight of Dawn 

Down from his throne, 

And over the arch of the world ; 

We paused, my Neighbor and I, 

On the banks of the rippling rivulet, 

And listened as it sang 

The lullaby, siren songs of the Night. 



158 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

In the chill moon-lit shadows of the pines, 

My Neighbor and I sat alone, Spirit and Chrysalis, 

While up from the valley of jassamines 

A rapturous cloud, odor laden, arose 

Like a star-decked shroud around us. 

The voices of the night, wierd and wanton, 

Came from the crags and cavernous cliffs, 

And made the gloom wistfully, strangely sepulchral. 

At the hour when the chimes of curfew sounded 

My neighbor arose, like a gnome of the mist, 

Clothed with a nebulous halo of fire, 

And touched me, the casket, dull dust of the valley, 

Then whisked me away toward the backward Forever, 

And showed me a scroll of the Infinite Record of Life ; 

Most wonderful workmanship, tapestry Divine, 

Of the blend of the thoughts and acts of the ages 

Woven in Spirit threads, golden and crimson. 

At the day dawn of the Future stood we, 

And with mystic wand he showed me 

Angel distaffs spinning, spinning Spirit threads 

Of golden gossamer from the Eon of Beginning, 

For the never Weary Weavers of the Present ; 

Who were weaving, ever throwing 

Through the tangled woof Existence 

Warp, forever, ever blending 

Past and Present, on, unending ; 

Never losing stroke or shuttle 

In this mystic maze of weaving ; 

Never breaking, never mending, 

Never stopping in their labor, 

Blending pictures of the Present 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 159 

With the facts of Yestereve ; 

Cause and action, plan and purpose, 

Interwoven threads Divine, 

Each in quick succession followed, 

Fraught with moment inter-twine 

With the increment resultants 

From a myriad unseen sources of the Past 

In one mighty panorama 

For the throne room of the Future, 

In Jehovah's council chamber, 

In the Eons of Forever and Forever. 



MARRIAGE 



WHAT is Life? An empty dream! 
Is it a strife where armors gleam 
And resound with clashing peals? 
What is the charm that it reveals, 
That ere in union binds and holds 
Our spirits in these earthly moulds? 
Is it the glitter and the gloss 
Or a baser nature's dross 
That lures us on to greater deeds, 
To scatter cheat among the seeds, 
Which God has given us to sow 
Within His Spirit's fields below. 

Is it Self that guides the hand 
To the unseen Spirit land? 
Must for Self we crucify 



160 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Thoughts and actions, and deny 
Our Better Being of the bliss 
That wakens with the magic kiss ? 

Half lived is Life when lived alone ; 
Cheap is the crown that Self has won 
If not for another's wearing. 
Life is dull without the sharing 
Of another's joys and sorrows 
And her hopes for bright Tomorrows. 
Was it with God a true design 
That man should, hermet-like, repine, 
When waits his counterpart in race, 
And longs to feel his warm embrace? 
Her body weaker, yet her heart 
Thrice fold in strength his counterpart. 
Well mated can she plume his wings 
To soar above the baser things 
That seek his spirit to entwine 
Fast to Self's imperial shrine. 
Thrice blest the lives in union bound ; 
Far less to him who treads the round 
And listens to Life's hollow chime 
Alone among the tombs of Time. 



LIFE 

OUR life is a joy that's supernal, 
A gem in eternity's crown, 
A link in the chain that's eternal, 
A veil to the world that's unknown. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 161 

Like the sand on the shore of the river 
Or the shells on the shoals of the sea, 

Are the lives that make the Forever, 
Are the bits of the world that's to be. 

Tis a chain that would bind us to Heaven, 

Bestowed as a treasure to all, 
Though its length and its bands were riven, 

When death was pronounced at the fall. 

Yet Christ added links by His kindness, 
By His death made longer the chain, 

Till it reached from the soul in its blindness 
To the bounds of the heavenly plain. 

Though Life has been shortened by weakness, 
Yet it striveth to lengthen its span, 

And Christ blesses it with His meekness, 
And makes it a gift unto man. 



UNDER THE POTTER'S WHEEL 

TURN not the Potter's wheel of years 
Aback upon its spirit reel, 
But check the flaws that thou may see 
Can mar and cause the clay in time 
To crumble, or the jar to be a castaway 
With misshaped urns for briny tears 
Of sad regret. 
Know thou the best is yet for thee, 



162 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Weep not o'er faults agone, 
Work on, endure the test, till dawn 
Of Morrow opes her golden gate, 
Then enter in and rest securely, 
And do not wait one moment 
When the Angel beckons thee. 



PIZARRO, THE SCOURGE OF PERU 

GRADUATION POEM, 
EARLHAM COLLEGE, RICHMOND, INDIANA, 1886. 

THE day had weary grown and gone to rest. 
Allinco sat beside the temple wall 
Deep hidden from the searching moon's pale rays 
Which shown between the creeping vines and trees, 
And at her feet upon the brooklet danced 
Like fairy sprites to the rippling music. 
Each sound of fluttering wings and rustling leaf 
Brought with it hope to her beclouded soul, 
For with the sounds she thought she heard the steps 
Of her own brother, Lord of Equidor, 
To whom she wished to tell her secret woe. 
While wheeled the moon around its northern course 
She waited, wept, and thought her plan of life. 
At first, a mountain maid whose Indian blood 
Coursed freely on its way through dark blue veins, 
Whose mind dreamed not the bondage waiting her, 
Whose soul was like the fragrant mountain bloom 
With which the image of the sun she crowned. 
Descendant of the gods through Incas lines 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 163 

The lot as Daughter of the Sun she chose, 
And at the morning dawn she loved to wait 
In prayer beside the temple's eastern door 
Until the sun, their supreme god, arose; 
Then she with hurried step amid the throng 
Passed quickly through to kiss the golden god 
Transfixed upon the temple's western wall ; 
She loved to sprinkle incense on the fire 
That ever burned before the sacred shrine. 
With other sisters oft she sought to weave 
The finest woolen vestments for the priests. 
To spin the silken threads of vacua 
And dye them purple in the golden urn, 
Befitting for the sacred Incas crown; 
But most to watch the sick, and clothe the poor, 
Who daily sat beside the temple door. 
While thus Allinco mused, her brother came, 
And she with words his lordship thus addressed: 

Allinco — 

"I hope in time, fair brother, thou hast come 
To strike Pizarro from his bloody throne. 
Thou knows not as thy sister doth full well 
How pious demons work their foul designs 
Beneath the priestly gown of sacred right. 
He feigns the power to bless or damn our souls 
That which but gods possess and exercise 
In turn for deeds both well or illy wrought. 
And if Pizarro's god is like his priest 
His realm is but the lowest type of hell, 
Whose vilest offspring is the Romish Church." 



164 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Atilba — 

"Hark, my gentle sister ! What is that sound ? 
Methought I heard the clanking hoofs of steeds 
Of Spanish squadrons, bound upon the way 
To render homage due tomorrow morn 
To Manco, for his lordly gifts of gold." 

Allinco — 

"Brave Incas brother, Lord of Equidor, 
I think Pizarro and his clan beguile, 
And do not truly represent their god. 
Yea, in this I know Von Hutton's right." 

Atilba — 

"Thou, Daughter of the Sun, know'th well the ground 

On which this base Pizarro rests his claim 

And speakest rightly of Von Hutton's god, 

Who is, methinks, the father of the Sun, 

The great first cause of Incas noble line. 

Thus far Von Hutton's pupil have I been, 

To learn to praise the god that he adores, 

The Spirit Ruler of the acts of men, 

Whose Son, vicarious, freed the world of sin." 

Allinco — 

"How well my brother, Lord Atilba, speaks. 

Enough, 'tis late, let's talk of other things ; 

For action now must be the Incas word. 

Thou seest who once was Capac's fav'rite Queen, 

The chosen of the Daughters of the Sun, 

The one who scorned Pizarro's bloody hand, 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 165 

When by the same at Yucay, Capac fell ; 
But ah, alas ! He took me like a beast, 
And made me share his fiendish tent and bed 
And called it all an act of Christian care, 
To rend my soul with ten-fold more of pain." 

Atilba — 

"And dared this demon think such recompense 

In turn for slaughter of thy sacred spouse? 

Methought that bloody battle calmed the storm 

That gave to Manco Capac's glorious crown, 

Which diadem Pizarro deigned to bless. 

I now can think this only as a sale 

Which gives to Spain our freedom, blood and gold." 

Allinco — 

"Oh ! Incas Lord, how true these words. 
I have within this Spanish tiger's den 
O'erheard these foul designs of his. 
Five suns ago I sent for thee to come 
And meet thy sister in this secret place, 
That I might tell his last, most fiendish plot, 
And through thee warn the people of the storm 
Whose thunders heard are like the sounding sea, 
Whose clouds with coming of the morn will burst 
And drench our land again in sacred blood." 

Atilba — 

"And still thou speakest as a priestess can. 
What ! Must tomorrow's feast be drunk with blood ? 
Must we be hunted down like mountain sheep 
And made the morsel of this panther's tooth !" 



166 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Allinco — 

"Ah, brother ! Yes ; 'tis sadly, surely true. 

This coronation feast is but a snare, 

A bate that's set before the mouth of hell 

To cause the final ruin of our race. 

When once Pizarro draws within these walls 

The sacred Incas lords and soldiers brave, 

His men with fiery darts will mow you down, 

And turn their steeds upon your mangled forms, 

And murder Manco for his golden gifts." 

Atilba — 

"To take revenge 'tis sweet, my sister brave. 
I'll make Pizarro drink my health in blood 
If he but shows a hostile mood to me." 
Atilba hushed. Allinco trembling spake: 

Allinco — 

"Hark! Hear that beating at this temple door, 
And hear those neighing steeds and clashing hoofs. 
See, standing in the moonlight, by the wall, 
Is knight Pizarro and his guilty clan. 
Methinks they seek our lives, so let us part." 

Atilba — 

"To thee, my sister, now a long farewell." 

Allinco — 

"Farewell, but not for aye; we'll meet again." 
Like roaring lions prowling for their prey, 
Pizarro with his thund'ring voice spake forth : 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 167 

PlZARRO 

"My Castile braves, tear down this temple door 

And curse its heathen maker as it falls. 

Rush in, and in the Holy Virgin's name 

Snatch from its walls of adamant the gold 

That now belongs to you by sacred right. 

Quixota, to thy task; tear down that sun, 

Upturn that altar and its sacred fire, 

And hurl the embers out upon the way. 

Here Don, strike down that skulking, haggard priest ; 

Fit is he only for a vulture's feast; 

It's but a righteous act to help him die, 

And dash his blood upon his golden god. 

Collect your booty now and let's be gone, 

As we must on the morrow's plans converse." 

When thus Pizarro spake, Quixota said: 

Quixota — 

"I fear my Lord, there's something in the wind 
About our little plan to have a feast 
And at the same to kill the Incas lords 
And bear away to prison Manco's form." 

Pizarro — 

"Plow dare thou, coward, make me such believe; 
Thou, villain, art the one, I then suppose, 
Who hath abroad this secret plan proclaimed. 
Down and confess, or else thy head is mine." 

Quixota — 

"Not so, my Lord ; thou wrongly judgest me. 
Thy mistress slave Allinco, is the cause; 



168 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

As yesterday a friendly native said 

She had with him been speaking of the plot 

And spreading well such news throughout the land." 

Pizarro — 

"And if such be the cause, cursed by my head 

For taking such a wench into my tent. 

I'll cleave her tattling tongue and stop her talk 

About my sacred plans decreed by God. 

Quixota, go. Let's off, for morning dawns." 

Pizarro and his armored clan depart 

And seek to test their strength with clashing arms 

Amidst a myriad heathen Indian hordes. 

Twas eve the second day, and in the west 

Blood bathed, the sun was sinking fast to rest 

Behind the Andes sun-kist snow-capped peaks. 

All day had Cuzco's streets been drinking blood 

That ran in rivers o'er the stony ways. 

At morn the Incas hordes poured through the gates 

Like mountain sheep into a lion's den; 

Like souls misguided to the mouth of hell 

As victims of another's heinous crimes. 

Like grass that falls before the mower's scythe, 

So Spanish fire mowed down the Indian hordes 

And brazen chains secured the Incas lords, 

And shackled Manco to the dungeon walls. 

When shackles thus securely bound the brave, 

Wide o'er the hills the heathen forces surged, 

Like thund'ring billows on the rocky shoals 

That rage and roar and with the moments die. 

Viscount Von Hutton fought in vain to turn the tide 

And save the brave Atilba from defeat. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 169 

Night cast above the scene her sombre veil 

And soothed to rest the warrior's troubled soul. 

The cold half moon shed forth her cheerless light 

Upon the upturned warrior's ghastly face. 

Among the myriad slain, Allinco walked 

And shed her tears in pools of silent blood; 

She heard a hundred dying prayers in vain, 

And quenched the burning thirst of dying braves. 

She stops ; she sees Von Hutton's stately form 

And at his feet, her lord, Atilba, dies. 

She hastes, she wails, she kneels down by his side, 

While thus in sadness cools his fevered brow, 

And gives him water from a golden cup. 

Von Hutton prays a penetential prayer 

That Christ would give Atilba peace, 

That he might calmly die a Christian death. 

Atilba seemed to sleep, but now and then 

He'd wake in fitful dreams and whisper low : 

Atilba — 

"Allinco, where art thou? We'll meet again; 
Yes, in the golden garden of the Sun." 

Allinco — 

"Yes, Love, we'll meet, but with Von Hutton's God, 

Who is in truth the author of our race, 

The first Great Father of the Incas line." 

She pauses and Von Hutton speaks with dread : 

Von Hutton — 

"Hark! Hear that beating at yon prison doors 
And now the clanking chains, maniacs words, 



170 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

Ah, list! Tis Manco's voice that thus bewails 
The final ruin of his noble line." 

Manco — 

"Ye gods ! How burns my brain, how throbs my heart ; 

My blood in fiery rivers runs its course, 

And makes my body but a moving hell. 

How dreary is this dismal dungeon tomb. 

Here Death entwines his slimy cords around, 

And draws my weary life out inch by inch. 

How heavy grow to me these prison chains, 

Whose clanking fills the regions of the damned. 

Ha! Whence comes that golden thread of light 

That shows to me a skull on yonder stone? 

Ha, ha ! How drinks to me that vulture's skull in hell 

And seems to ope its jaws and call for gold. 

Oh, Moon ! Thou showst, methinks, Pizarro's skull 

That grins as avaricious specters can. 

Now Spanish fiend, partake of hell thy fill, 

For thou hast earned the gorging condor's share. 

Take off those bloody, priestly robes of thine 

In which, disguised, thou feignedst to be a saint, 

But now thou answerest to the name of fiend, 

Tyrant, despot, destroyer of our race ! 

I wish I had a cup of molten gold, 

I'd fill thy cursed skull to overflow. 

Instead of wine, my health in gold thou'd drink, 

Vilest vulture of the human race. 

Each tooth would be a golden nugget, pure; 

Each eye would be a sunken pool of gold ; 

And thus they would see as others see them. 

Those eyes — they never filled with pity's look, 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 171 

Nor sought a way for our benighted race. 

They saw our temples, rich with gold and gems, 

And while on heaven seemed they fixed in prayer, 

They were but counting up the golden suns 

That shone as gods upon our temple walls. 

That brain, where Thought hath done such ghoulish 

work, 
Should nothing be but fiery, liquid gold, 
For Spanish Thought sits on a golden throne. 
Oh! Could I shape that avaricious soul, 
I'd make a hunch-backed, dwarfish thing of it; 
But I'd make it from this trashy stuff — 
This thing that brings our final ruin — Gold. 
Oh, Sun ! And at Pizarro's hand I die 
A martyr to his greedy, Spanish lust." 
Von Hutton hears the dying wail and says : 

Von Hutton — 

"Ah ! 'Tis a knell of death in awful words ; 
Like daggers, to the hilt they pierce my heart. 
But I must cease and soothe our dying prince ; 
So I will go and bring from yonder brook 
That which will quench Atilba's burning thirst, 
And soothe to rest his careworn, feverish brow." 
Allinco answers to this sad refrain : 

Allinco — 

"Go, Christian prince, and fill the goblet full; 
For 'tis such noble act of thine in time of need 
That shows thy love an attribute of God. 
Whom thou call'st Christ, I now accept by faith ; 
Although the struggle has been fierce and long 



172 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

To thus surrender all our holy rites 

And cease the worship of the Supreme Sun." 

Von Hutton goes and fills the golden cup ; 

Returns to find the loved Allinco slain, 

And o'er her prostrate form he says these words : 

Von Hutton — 

"Oh, Horrors ! And Pizarro's bloody knife 

Hath done its last, most fiendish, damning act ; 

Hath stabbed the Mother of this Incas realm. 

Oh! Had I staid to die Allinco's death. 

Alas ! Too late ! The brute hath done his work. 

Here, noble princess, quench thy parching tongue, 

And with the rest I'll bathe thy bleeding wounds. 

So in the name of Christ I give the cup, 

For such is all that I can give to thee, 

Except to shed my tears upon thy grave, 

Which I shall dig for thee with mine own hands. 

Allinco, noble, brave and true thou art; 

Most lovely spirit of the Incas realm, 

Must thou in sorrow thus this life depart, 

A sacrifice for Freedom's sacred cause? 

Could I fan back that ember into life, 

The blaze would melt the Spanish tyrant's chains 

And leave the Incas master of his realm; 

Would purify the Church of grossest crimes 

That basely seeks to make thy people slaves. 

Couldst thou have lived to further teach thy race 

What freedom and what thraldom truly are; 

That every life, if pure, is worth to live 

And help to shape the destiny of man, 

How blest would be the future of Peru. 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 173 

In thee the freedom of thy race departs 

Beyond thy people's grasp and ken, 

For Spanish tyrants doom to blackest night 

The rising spirit of the true and free. 

Pizarro feigned to be a saint. Of hell 

He is, I fearlessly proclaim in truth. 

He came beneath the Romish Church's wings, 

And in her name he robbed you of your rights 

And heaped his curses on your supreme god, 

While yet his god is naught but filthy gold. 

He feigned to bring salvation to thy race, 

But vilely hell-brewed is his every thought. 

He dooms to an eternal exile, Right, 

And feeds your souls with blackest bread of Sin. 

Oh ! Hadst thou lived to teach that Christ had come 

And died, a Universal Sacrifice, 

And with His blood had an atonement made 

For sin of every one who should believe ; 

To teach that priestcraft is a galling yoke, 

And Christ alone can cleanse us of our sins ; 

To teach that chiming bells and gorgeous robes 

And muttered prayers are all deceitful forms; 

To teach that each can seek a Savior's love, 

x\nd make the same his guiding rule of life, 

Thy people would a thousand-fold be blest. 

Go, gentle Spirit, like the weary bird, 

Storm tossed about midst wildest gales ; 

Go seek repose amidst shady bowers 

And rest away from Life's tempestuous scenes, 

There sing a grander, sweeter strain of joy 

Beyond the hearing and the sight of men, 

In Paradise, so may thy soul thus rest." 



174 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

TO THE GRADUATING ELOCUTION 
CLASS OF 1894, 

WASHINGTON FRIENDS ACADEMY, KANSAS 

YOU stand on the bridge of the Present, 
And chant Life's musical rhyme, 
While the sweet, soft zephyrs of morning 
Waft by, down the River of Time. 

You look at the river beneath you 
As it hurries and dashes along 

To the sea of forgotten Forever, 
While o'er its dark surface, a song 

Through the haze and mist of the morning 
Comes back in a broken refrain, 

And you list to the words of its warning, 
"Life was to us profitless, vain." 

You can cast from the bridge of the Present 
Your barques into the surging stream, 

Without even a thought or endeavor, 
But to drift like a pleasant dream 

Unknown, unforgotten together, 

Away from the light-house of Hope, 

That stands up the river above you 
On the beautiful evergreen slope 

Of the famed Andelusian Future. 

This long swinging bridge of the Present, 

Upon which you're standing tonight, 
Is hung on the wires of Existence 



RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 175 

That stretch from the infinite Night 
High over Time's waste of water, 

Through the silvery clouds of light, 
To the hands of the Infinite Father. 

The morning of life is upon you; 

You press toward the farther shore, 
With the star of purpose above you 

And the sunlight of wisdom before. 

You read the sad lessons of failure 
Upon the black clouds of the Past, 

And seek to fathom the future 
So limitless, boundless, vast. 

Seek to know if it, beautiful pictures, 

Will ever be truthful and real, 
Or whether they are simple chimeras 

That Tomorrows will only reveal. 

Not in vain are the castles builded 

And set afloat in the air; 
Not in vain are palaces guilded 

On corridor, dome and stair. 

These visions are only incentives 

That lure to the higher plane 
Of life, in the realm of immortals, 

That only true toilers can gain. 

How oft in a moment they vanish; 
Blown away are these magical isles, 



176 RHYMES OF THE YESTERYEAR 

With their beautiful gardens and fountains 
Eutopian, sweet afterwhiles. 

But nothing is lost, though in ashes 
Our hopes have melted away, 

And the thread of our effort is tangled 
In the failures of yesterday. 

You have striven to gird for the battle 
Whose lists you enter tonight; 

And the long roll and snare-drum rattle 
Will scarcely give you a fright. 

But when the sharp guns of objection 
Shall slaughter your myriads of hopes; 

Stand fast on the bridge of the Present; 
Look to God, for He holdeth the ropes. 

The world with a critical balance 
Weighs wisdom with golden scales, 

And credits each honest endeavor, 
Though to us, it seemingly fails. 

Our world is not half so cruel 

As Fate would make it to be ; 
It is now only asking for power 

And skill from you and from me. 

You have finished your studies with credit; 

Go forth with "We wish you well" ; 
Keep the world forever your debtor 

At the banks of our Father, farewell. 



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